


Prince of Light

by iCeDreams, pherryt



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Jewels Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Christmas, Fantasy, Genderbent Characters, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Prophecies, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue Mission, Side of Fluff, Slave Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Build, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wings, genderbent characters - not dean or cas, tub sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iCeDreams/pseuds/iCeDreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: It has been prophesied that a Prince borne out of Light would save the Terreille after the Queen of Darkness scourges the lands.  But first Dean needs to find the Prince of Light before he is corrupted and lost, fulfilling both his mother’s last prophecy and dying wish in the process.Can Prince Dean Winchester spirit him from that broken place to the safety of Kaeleer, even if the Prince is in Terreille, another Realm away?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 56
Kudos: 48
Collections: Perfect Pair Bang 2020 (Official)





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : Castiel is a slave in this fic. There are definitely NOT GOOD THINGS happening to him explicitly. There is a segment with a rape scene. I will warn in the beginning of the chapter, and you can skip it without missing a lot of the plot progression. If you want details [they can be found here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372778/chapters/58785112#chapter_4_endnotes)
> 
> That being said, there is NO RAPE BETWEEN DEAN AND CAS. But because he's a slave, anything that happens here is dubious consent at the very least. I cannot stress this enough.
> 
> Also, only the prologue is in the first person. Everything else isn't :D
> 
> If you're here solely from the Supernatural fandom... welcome!!! Let's all descend to the madness. If you find yourself lost, I've compiled a Glossary at the end: [Book of Protocol](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372778/chapters/58807993) which you could read from time to time, although I hope that I've made it pretty accessible to non-Black Jewel fans.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with Black Jewels canon. I did invent a lot of things to try to fill it in as well. It's slightly less vulgar than the books. If you're from the Black Jewels fandom, then the fic parallels events to Daughter of the Blood. Prologue happens during that Book's prologue and Part II vaguely happens during the beginning of its first chapter. Part I was the backstory that in the book was frequently referred to as flashbacks or infodrops.
> 
> Thank you to [pherryt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt), who has been patient with me so much during the writing process. She deserves the world, go give kudos on the art and banner [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776). From the inception to the writing to the late-night talks. While I did throw out this idea before, this is the first time I've fleshed it out and it's a different story than what I've thought with others because pherryt and I built this from the ground up.
> 
> Major major thanks to the mods who've been patient. [Archeolatry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry), RVABritt who are amazing alphas and tried to wrestle this into submission. [elephino_forthehalibut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephino_forthehalibut) & [a-qualitystudentharmony](https://a-qualitystudentharmony.tumblr.com/) for the beta work. One line edits from discord pb channel and [goldenraeofsun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenraeofsun). Special shout out to [Jaeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh) who wrangled all my NSFW scenes. I couldn't have done this without all of you.
> 
> CON CRIT welcome.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : _Supernatural_ is the property of WarnerBrothersand the CW, and is the brainchild of Erik Kripke. _Black Jewels_ was written by Anne Bishop. All use of the characters and their lines from the series is unauthorized. The playground is Anne Bishop's. I am merely borrowing them for a time, and will return them (a little bit worse for wear, but functional) promptly.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> 

I am Amara Schyreleah, Amara of the Angelus, Amara the Forgotten.

When I was younger, I spun a tangled web and saw unnamed horrors. I brought it up to our chieftain, for we are like the Jhinka in our patriarchy, and he locked me high in the Eyrie for it.

We are a people of Light, of wings, of freedom, and air. He knew that the isolation could have killed me or brought me closer to the Twisted Kingdom. A weaver's message is just that, a message. I did not will these events. 

My brother, in his arrogance, chooses not to acknowledge that we are Blood. Though we might try to revere the Light, we are also of the Dark. We were once brothers and sisters to the Eryiens, who have long since forgotten that we were once one people. 

Maybe they were right about us, that we were unnatural for holding a court that serves males instead of a Queen, of celebrating the lighter Jewels instead of elevating the dark. In other parts of the realm, the Queen is the Blood’s moral center, but in these parts, my brother holds the law.

The Angelus are Blood as they are Blood, capable of wielding power and storing it in our Jewels, only we have turned towards the Light instead of the Darkness that holds power.

“Castiel!” An irate female voice yells through the doorway and inky blackness. “You know we’re not supposed to play up here. Father will be furious!”

“That’s no fun, Anna. Father goes up these stairs every day, and nothing happens to him!”

Ah, there he is, Castiel Schyreleah, youngest son of the chief, and the reason I’ve been kept in the dark for so long. He’s barely ten summers, but beneath the inky hair and golden skin that marks him from one of the three long-lived races, he fledged black instead of the white our people are known for. The Eryiens may have thin and leathery wings like the night, but we, the Angelus, their long distant cousins, have always had white feathered wings.

I press my ear to the wall listening to the heavy stomping of boots against the wooden floor. Soon, the flicker of torchlight shows through the gap of the closed door. Even my brother couldn’t completely seal my room to block the stale wind from the musty tower. He did brick up the room’s only window. 

I flare my wings out as someone scrabbles with the door. It would be useless to open it. Joshua, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and his Queen were the ones who had Craft-locked and shielded the room. Castiel is not old enough for his Birthright Ceremony. He does not have a Jewel yet.

“They are coming.”

Castiel stops and hesitates behind the door. He is unknowingly waiting for the prophecy I have not spoken in years. I whisper it now, the prophecy that has damned me into the dark, “They will break and bleed and tear our lands. They will take our children and sell them off as slaves. The Angelus will be no more. Those who survive will be cut off from the Darkness and walk without the Light.”

Anna, the older sister, finally catches up with Castiel from the sound of it, and she berates him and tries to drag him away. Castiel ignores his sister and edges closer. “There’s a Black Widow behind the doors, Anael.”

“Aunt Amara is back there!” Anael whispers furiously, but her voice still carries in the room. “You know she walks the Twisted Kingdom.”

Is that what my brother has been telling everyone? No wonder the Angelus accepted the imprisonment of a powerful Black Widow. We Black Widow sisters are witches who heal the mind, but they fear us because of the tangled web we weave. They fear the web of dreams and visions and kill the messenger for it.

No matter, Terreille has long since been casting its shadow into Askavi, and therefore the Sinai Mountains, our home. If my brother had not locked me here, Dorothea Sadiablo, Terreille’s self-proclaimed High Priestess, would have killed me along with Coven of the Hourglass. In some ways, my brother’s temper tantrum saved me from death.

“Aunt Amara?” 

Ah, the boy has not left yet. Good.

“They will take you from hearth and home, and they will force you to kneel. They will ring you and bind you to their will. They will bring you to the hunting camps to train. They will hold you for centuries. You will not break, Castiel, you must not break because through you, we will receive the Light. It may take years, or centuries, or tomorrow, but you _will_ receive it. The Blood’s day of reckoning is coming, and you will be an instrument of the Light.”

There is an interminable pause. I know the Queen of the Darkness has already been foretold, that someone else already whispered of her coming. There is a restlessness in the webs of power, but this one, this one, Castiel needed to hear.

His sister seems to have pulled him away, but I hope the prophecy has been enough to warn Castiel.

That evening, raiders come and burn through our village, taking our children, and killing our women. I howl with the flames and wonder if I will meet my nephew again.

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776)

* * *

#  **Part I**

** Opal is the dividing line between lighter and darker Jewels because it can be either

## 1/Kaeleer

> **Jewels** —an outward representation of the power wielded by members of the Blood. They act as a container for the reservoir of power possessed by the Blood. Not all members of the Blood have enough psychic power to receive one.
> 
> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

* * *

Dean is playing with a stick and attacking the tree stumps in the yard when he notices his mother, Mary, being restless. She’s been rocking Sammy, Dean’s week-old baby brother, to sleep while attempting to plant. In the time that Dean has killed the mighty dragon (the tree stump) and sworn fealty to a Queen (his mother’s apron hanging in the kitchen), his mom has already brewed tea, sung to Sam, and checked the garden twice. Whatever she saw in her tangled webs seems to hang in the air despite keeping busy.

Attentive to her moods, Dean leaves the stick and starts carefully weeding in the dirt at her feet, trying to be subtle. His dad told him he should always try to offer his mom help and food whenever she was silent or had her moon’s blood. Especially when his dad is off in town somewhere selling some of her brews or working on the thatching of a neighbor’s roof for a few coins. 

But Dean knows why his mom is this way. She’d woven a tangled web this morning; since then she seemed elsewhere, forgetting where she’d placed the butter, the milk, or the watering can.

Dean strokes her knuckles while she rocks Sam, but her eyes are sightlessly staring into the webs. He washes his hands then goes into the kitchen and pours boiling water to steep his mom’s healing tea. When the sweet earthy aroma emerges up from the cup, he takes it to her. He guides her to her favorite chair before he gives it to her.

She stares at it uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before she forces out a laugh and taps Dean’s nose, Sam still resting in her arms.

Dean’s mom is a Black Widow. His dad tells him she’s a kind of witch that has visions. A Black Widow doesn’t always tell you about what she sees. But sometimes, if he stayed close enough and stopped moving, his mom would forget he was there. She’d start muttering what she observed on the web and try to untangle them. As if whispering them when no one could hear would bring clarity.

Dean brings pillows to her feet. Pretending to nod off, he rests his eyes but keeps his ears open. He listens to the crickets as they call out while waiting for his mom to gather her thoughts. 

Sure enough, after a few minutes of silence, she repeats her vision: A jess hooked on a leash around a raven; the light sheltered by the dark and her males protecting its core; blood from a well, bursting out like a geyser, but it slowed when the raven roosted there and stopped completely with a nestling. Finally, she whispers: death in a fire and a court served with people with wings. 

Dean tries to remember what his mom mumbles, but some words are too hard. His dad would know. They’ll help his mom, and she wouldn’t fret about it anymore. Decided on a course of action, Dean falls asleep with a smile on his face.

John Winchester arrives home when the sun has set. He finds Sam in the bassinet and Mary in the rocking chair that he’d built for her when they bought the house and settled in Dhemlan. Dean is curled at a pillow near her feet in sleep.

John notes the almost empty mug and the tangled web, a weave used by the Black Widows to understand dreams and visions, cast to the side. Dean is positioned protectively around her, despite his slumber. John raises his eyebrows in concern when he turns to his wife. “Something wrong?”

Mary’s shoulders tense with the question. Females are annoyed over fussing, and she is not pleased when John taught Dean to do the same. But Dean, their sweet little boy, took the instructions to heart. He frets over Mary and snarls protectively when there are other males. John suspects that Dean might grow up to be a Warlord Prince, one of the most dangerous castes in the Blood hierarchies, superseding even John’s own status.

Mary fidgets before finally saying, “You two need to go back to Terreille.” 

John takes his time with his jacket, hanging it. He turns over the idea slowly, despite Mary fretting over the announcement. 

Had it only been six short years ago that they’d crossed over from Terreille? It feels like a lifetime. They’re different people now. He remembers when they crossed over, running away from Terreille.

John wasn’t sure if the Sanctuary near Hayll would help them. It was firmly under the High Priestess’ thumb. So he’d brought her to Grayhaven, in Dena Nehele instead.

“I guess it’s no secret why I brought you way out here,” John mumbled, gesturing to the Grayhaven Sanctuary. 

Mary laughed, her belly full from the picnic they’d decimated. She was sprawled undignified on the blanket at the edge of the meadow, where the long grass was seeded with sunflowers. “You just wanted to show off the Web Coach.”

John put down the half-eaten plate of pie and tucked a strand of golden hair that had escaped her braid. “I just—just let me get through this, all right?”

She had sensed the levity of the moment as she straightened and leaned towards him. “There are things you don’t know about me, John.”

“That you’re a Black Widow?” Her mouth fell open wordlessly before John powered through, “You’re part of the Coven of the Hourglass. It’s why we’re here.”

“Then you know Dorothea has been purging all Black Widows that aren’t loyal to her,” Mary hissed, her voice low. She attempted to stand up, but John’s hand had captured hers in his. “You should leave. Find a safe hearth witch for a wife. You’re a Green-Jeweled Prince, you’ll be able to survive.”

“And get ringed in a court without a Queen?” John ran his other hand through his hair before he jerked a ring box out of his dress coat and presented it to her. “I will always love you for exactly who you are.”

Speechless, Mary took the Summer-sky ring, simply set in a prong with a plain band. It was a light Jewel, which made Mary of little import to those who were killing Black Widows. It would only take time before Dorothea set her eyes on Black Widows who were against her. 

“Please say something.” John looked straight into Mary’s eyes, refusing to consider the worst.

“We’ll be hiding for the rest of our lives,” she said instead. It wasn’t a no. There was hope. 

John pulled her up, folded the ring in her hands, and tugged her towards the Sanctuary. It was long in disuse because Grayhaven had been battered by Dorothea’s forces for generations. John called in a four-branched candelabra at the Altar. “Not if we’re in a different Realm.”

“What do you mean…” Mary trailed off when John started placing black candles on them, lighting them in order. “It’s a Dark Altar. You’re opening a Gate.”

John laughed as he methodically placed them in the four cardinal points before gesturing for Mary to come. “There's an old Priestess who still knows how to open the Gates from the Great Wars. We can go to Kaeleer, Mary.”

And they’ve been in Kaeleer since then. They haven’t looked back until today.

Mary touches his arm tentatively, startling him from the memory. Troubled, John kneels beside her and takes Dean off the floor, kissing the boy’s forehead before pulling him up in an embrace. Dean stirs, angling his head towards Mary for a while before settling in his father’s arms.

“The two of us?” John clarifies, shifting Dean to a more comfortable position. “Not just me?”

Mary stands up and embraces John, laying her head on his back. “You’ll need Dean for this one.”

John’s grip on their eldest tightens before he lays their son on the straw mattress that John cobbled up for him when he’d outgrown his crib. John smooths the blond locks before tucking him and holding Mary’s gaze. “He’s only a boy.”

Mary hesitates, deep frown lines etched in her face forming into a tight smile, but she says with conviction, “If you go without him, you’ll fail.” 

John looks at the tangled web that Mary has beside the rocking chair before returning Mary’s hug. “We have a life here, a good Queen to serve. The Third Circle isn’t bad, either.”

“If we don’t go back, many of our Terreillian brothers and sisters will die. A Prince from Terreille can salvage all that’s lost.”

“Salvage?” A Black Widow does not use words lightly, she means salvage and not _save_.

“The time of reckoning _will_ come. Whether Terreille can be born anew will depend on this one life.”

John closes his eyes and relents, not knowing that it would change their lives forever.

The court of Queen Zhara, the Province Queen of Amdarh, is informal. When John walked up to the Queen’s Manor, he’d been whisked to the Steward’s study, the Warlord Prince’s eyes on John. Tapping his pen against the sheaf of papers formally requesting to be let go, the Steward rubs his chin.

“Are you not happy in the Third Circle?” the Steward inquires as he leans forward, his fingers steepling. 

John’s duties in the Third Circle are limited: providing protection against Jhinka, hunting game, rotations as a guard, and other minor details depending on the Steward. However, John Winchester is a hard worker and loyal to a fault. Queen Zhara will be unhappy to discharge a Prince like him.

John rubs the back of his neck, defeated. “It’s my wife. She’s a Black Widow.” He relates the story of the tangled web that she saw. He continues to speak about their decision to protect this Prince of Light and to redeem whatever’s left of Terreille.

“Frankly, I don’t think there’s any part of Terreille that’s salvageable,” the Steward confides. John sighs, it is his nature as a Prince to support his wife’s wishes even if he doesn’t completely agree with them. “But it coincides with one of the coven’s tangled webs and our Queen has decided to allow the _controlled_ entry of a select few Blood males into Kaeleer. So, Prince Winchester, thank you for volunteering.”

John’s head snaps up at the news. 

“Lady Zhara's conditions include that you vet these Princes before they enter Kaeleer. Register them with the Hunter's Guild so someone keeps track of them. Make sure they never find out how to open the Gates. Finally, confirm that they truly are uncorrupted Blood Males."

The last is a steep order. It's not like there's a physical mark that differentiates males untainted by Terreille's ways. “Is there some way to help with the uncorrupted part?” 

“There's a reason why the borders of Kaeleer and Terreille are closed, Prince,” the Steward reminds him. He writes a name and address on a separate piece of paper before burning the letter of resignation on his desk. “The Dark Council is planning some sort of Service Fair to get them through legitimately, but in the meantime the Black Widow was quite insistent on saving this Prince of Light. It's why there are conditions. Show your smuggled prince to Draca at the Keep before setting them free.

“This is the name and location of the head of the Hunter’s Guild.” The Steward pauses before squinting at John and continuing, “Unless you want to bring this up with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.”

John, being sane and having a healthy respect for the demon-dead, does _not_ want to disturb the strongest Blood Male in all the Realms. 

The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, Saetan SaDiablo, is someone that he wants to avoid at all costs. Prince SaDiablo, a Guardian, a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and the High Lord of Hell inspires more terror than coming home empty-handed.

“I’ll talk to the Hunter’s Guild, my Lord,” John says.

The Steward of the Court snorts. “I thought you might say that.”

When John finds the Hunter’s Guild, it has been a month since his wife’s prophecy. Bobby Singer is a Yellow-Jeweled Warlord whose face is perpetually covered in a grimace and runs the Hunter’s Guild in Dhemlan. 

Bobby’s Yellow Jewel glints in the morning sun and his eyes are trained on John when John flashes the Green Jewel of his ring. In a battle of Jewels, John’s out-powered Bobby’s Yellow any day. As a Prince, John is higher in the hierarchy than Bobby’s Warlord, but the man holds his ground defiantly. 

Bobby flicks his wrist, and John feels the power of the hunter’s Yellow and his subsequent descent to the darkness. “I reckon I could still fill you with holes before you kill me with the Green.” John wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby has Craft-made traps littering the area.

The Blood has no law against murder. But, it exacts a blood debt, and they should be willing to pay that price if they commit it. John grins, despite the threat. “Come on, I heard you’re the only one around these parts that could help me with bringing over—”

A warning shot fires on the dirt near John’s foot before he finishes. John grimaces at the sight but lets it pass. If he wants to follow his wife’s wishes, then Bobby Singer is the person he must go to. 

“Thank you for missing,” John mutters.

“Who said I was aiming at the ground?” Bobby threatens back.

An impasse, then. “I guess I’d just have to tell my wife you didn’t want to taste the apple pie that she made.”

Bobby steps forward minutely, the surrounding power lightens slowly. 

John hides a smile beneath the basket when he raises it and lifts the cheesecloth covering his wife’s offering. “Freshly baked this morning. I’ll have to send it over to Mr. Turner over at the—”

John is cut off by another flare of power that’s closer than he’s comfortable with. _Mother Night!_ John thought, _Bobby Singer is one ornery bastard._

“Don’t you go giving pies away to that cantankerous old coot. You’d be wasting fillin’.” Bobby motions for John to come in while muttering under his breath. 

It’s how John joins the Hunter’s Guild. His sole mission: to smuggle as much untainted Blood across the Realm of Terrielle to Kaeleer as they safely could.

John moves back-and-forth between realms. He finds good, unbroken Blood males. But when he brings them to Draca and Mary, they’re never the prophesied one. 

Dean’s Birthright Ceremony shortly after his tenth birthday comes like the first daffodils after a howling winter.

His dad escorts Dean inside the Sanctuary as his witness. He stands in the looming presence of the Dark Altar and holds his dad’s hand as the Priestess officiates.

“When we Offer to the Darkness, we descend to the psychic abyss that is our minds,” the Priestess says, gesturing so that Dean would step forward. She brandishes a silver knife and pricks his thumb before smearing it across the Altar in Offering.

Dean closes his eyes to calm his rioting thoughts, bringing his barriers to focus. The psychic abyss welcomes him when Dean’s eyes open. Though distantly he feels the hard wooden floor of the Sanctuary, he’s also standing suspended in the middle of a deep and wide chasm.

Dean’s enclosed in circles of protective shields and his dad is waiting patiently outside his inner barriers. Dean slowly opens the barriers of his mind so his father could go with him. When his dad reaches Dean, he squeezes his hand in encouragement. 

*Let’s go, Dean.* His father talks to him through psychic threads here, because there is no physical body. He shares a grin with him before gesturing for Dean to lead the way.

Dean notices they’re suspended in the air by a Summer-sky web stretched over the edges of the abyss. When he looks up to the sky, there are more webs of lighter colors in the Jeweled spectrum. When Dean looks down, he feels queasy from the rioting Darkness below.

Dean grips his father’s hands tighter, his knuckles going white. 

His dad kneels and envelopes him in a hug, and Dean breathes in his father’s comforting psychic scent. *We’re in your mind Dean, the Darkness is the gift of your psychic strength. I’m here to help you. Look, the lightest we came to is your mom’s Summer-sky, aren’t you excited?”

Taking a deep breath Dean peeks around their shoes. Yes, the Darkness is still there. But there’s also darker webs and an insistent tug that draws Dean deeper. Walking with his dad for support, they navigate the abyss and descend slowly. Finally, Dean feels like the power is too full, and his ears would pop from the weight.

John hooks his thumb over his belt and looks at the level which Dean reached, a satisfied smile across his face. *This is your inner web. You descend to this depth when you want to draw on your powers.*

When Dean blinks, he’s standing in front of the Altar. On top of it is polished Green Jewel, as large as his fist. He glances at his father, who pulls him up and twirls him around like he was four again. “Birthright Green. Good job!”

The Priestess waits for them to finish politely, a rueful smile on her face. She hands the Jewel over with gravitas and warns, “Take care not to descend too fast. We don’t know your caste yet but it’s better to hear this while you don’t have bad habits yet. Warlord Princes have the tendency to perform reckless dives because of their killing edge and it’s my duty to warn you about it. If you break your webs, you will shatter your Jewel.”

His mom and Sam are waiting outside the Sanctuary. When he shows the Jewel to them, Sam jumps high and gives a loud whoop.

Dean and Sam learn basic Craft and simple spells at their mother’s feet. Some spells demand a Jewel, and Dean’s lessons accelerate after his Birthright Ceremony. His mother teaches him to tie threads of a spell to chips of Jewels and more complicated weaves that call for deeper draws.

While Dean can generate power for spells, his weaves are still clumsy. 

Mary smiles patiently and reminds him, “Practice the weave for precision and finesse. You need control for that. When you’re in danger, a blast from all the reserves of your Green is still a bludgeon. It will incapacitate anyone lighter than a Green.”

Sam takes to the lessons like a sponge, even if he can’t use the Jewels yet. They spend the time together to try the spells while waiting for their father to come home from his missions.

Dean wakes by the frost in the air during the autumn after his Birthright Ceremony. He shivers, recognizing it instinctively as a Warlord Prince’s killing edge, knowing that a Prince has drawn battle lines inside the house.

Following his father’s orders: protect and defend, Dean goes to his mom’s room. His dad always says that it’s a Warlord’s duty to defend a female. But he finds it empty, the covers were thrown off, and neither his mom nor his dad is present.

Impulsively, Dean takes off to Sam’s room next. Every step towards the room brings Dean the chills. His breath starts to fog and the hallway mirror that his mom used to check her reflection on has a thin streak of ice. It’s a Warlord Prince’s cold rage.

There is a dark power swirling. It’s darker than Dean’s Birthright Green, and his heartbeat races, like his dad’s horse when she runs over the meadows. But Sammy needs him, so he soldiers on, pushing the door carefully.

What he finds there would forever be etched in Dean’s mind. His father, shielded, protecting Sam, battling against a Warlord Prince unleashing the Red. His dad won’t win against that much power. 

The ceiling is covered in witch-fire and burns its perpetual flames. It’s a direct contrast to the biting cold fury in the hallways. But soon, it would blaze through the entire house and overcome the ice. 

John, making triple shields with his Green Jewel, shoves six-year-old Sam towards Dean and growls, “Take your brother outside, shield yourselves, and run as fast as you can.”

The unknown assailant batters John’s shields, his shield failing just as Sam gets knocked out of his stupor. Dean can’t carry Sam, but he uses a little of Craft to help him and drags his petrified brother out into the night air.

Dean doesn’t stop running until he stumbles into Lady Missouri Moseley, their Priestess neighbor. She’d been standing outside, troubled. When she takes a look at them, she envelops them in blankets and ushers them in her house. 

When Dean turns back and sees Sam’s room, it’s enclosed in witch-fire, an angry, hungry thing that burns anything and everything in its path. Missouri shields the entire household with Red once they’re through and secures them in the kitchen with warm milk.

Dean sees his dad running from their house to Missouri’s doorstep, through the window. His dad’s face haunted, soot covering him from head to toe and blood trickling from a head wound. In his dad’s arms, he holds Mom’s Summer-sky pendant and the tangled web that had troubled her from Sam’s birth. 

“Who was that?” Lady Missouri asks when she lets him in, as she reinforces Red shields around her home.

The Warlord Prince could follow them but Lady Mosely’s defenses would weather an attack from him. It would do until the District Queen or a stronger Warlord Prince arrives.

Dean’s dad collapses near the doorway, while Dean huddles behind the cabinet, motioning for Sam to stay silent when Sam starts a protest. Dean listens in on them because he knows they’d never tell a child like him whatever is happening.

“He’s a Warlord Prince named Azazel from the court I stole Prince Daniel away from,” John explains, defeated. Dean remembers Prince Daniel as the last mission his dad brought back from the other realm. There’s a long span of silence where they disappear from Dean’s line of sight. “He probably followed me through the Gates from Terreille. Mother Night! I told Mary this was too dangerous!”

“She knew the risks of sending you over to Terreille, Prince,” Lady Missouri reminds him, but regret tinges her voice. “Did he finish the kill?”

Once the Blood die, if they have enough power left, they could transition to being demon-dead. But for those who’ve been given a final death they become a whisper in the Darkness.

Dean brings up his fist to his mouth to silence the scream that wants to come out. Sam, sensing his distress, leaves the table to crowd against Dean. Trying to be brave for his brother, Dean attempts a half-hearted smile. He holds Sam and rocks them both in comfort.

John, having heard the commotion, follows. He takes one look at the brothers and engulfs them both in his arms.

They walk over to their house the next day; the fires are still blazing. It’s Lady Missouri who quenches the witch-fire, which unnaturally hasn’t spread to the yard and houses beyond. They watch solemnly as the fire recedes to leave them the skeletal remains of the house that Dean and Sam had grown up in. While Dad is searching for any salvageable items that they might have protected with Craft, Dean retreats to the doorway of Sam’s room.

He couldn’t enter. The psychic scent of violence and hatred soaking in the walls hadn’t been erased by the witch fire. It shows the snippets of his mother’s struggle, of Prince Azazel pinning her on to the ceiling, slashing her abdomen, and then setting her on fire.

Thus marks the end of Dean’s childhood.


	2. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **The Blood** —a Caste of people over many races that are capable of utilizing Craft that could be focused using a Jewel.
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Queen Michaela ignores the thinly barbed gloating that she feels from the psychic threads of her sister, Lucian. Having been at odds with her sister for the better part of their lives, she’s had practice. They’ve come together for a formal dinner today because Lucian has been agog about sharing some news. Michaela, ever gracious, arranges the feast with her court in attendance.

Michaela lounges in the ballroom, talking from one male to the other of her First Circle. She didn’t enjoy lengthy conversations with them, but as a Provincial Queen, she sees to their needs.

The District Queens have been arriving for the feast paired with either their First Escort or Consort for the entire night, and still, Lucian does not come. Given that Lucian is vain, fickle, and is prone to changing from one outfit to the other while trying to prepare for dinner, it is understandable. But her Escort, Castiel, would not have allowed her to be too late.

Michaela rubbed her lip, ah Castiel. Lucian’s favorite pet and Michaela’s pleasure slave. She found Castiel when he was a hundred, still a boy in their long-lifespans, from the Eyrien hunting camps. Stolen from the Angelus tribes farther North.

As if her thoughts heralded their arrival, Lucian and Castiel appear on the open balcony, where most Eryiens fly in, ready to be announced. 

“Queen Lucian, District Queen of Bragana escorted by the Warlord Prince Castiel, slave to Queen Michaela,” the herald announces after much fanfare.

A hush falls over the general din as they take in the District Queen’s appearance. Lucian is wearing a deep blue gown trimmed with lace and heavily embroidered with feathers. Her brown curls are pulled up with a few wisps framing her face, with her Sapphire Jewels littering her coiffure, and her leathery wings shine with her favorite oils.

In contrast, Castiel is a picture of understated elegance. Black wings, golden-skinned, ebony hair, and Angelus blue eyes. He is long-lived, and can maintain service in their long lifetime. Winged to perform duties in flight, even though he is fledged unlike the leathery membranes of the Eryiens. He’d filled out when he’d reached the five hundredth year of his nesting. Castiel has become the ideal specimen: tall and muscular. It’s enough for the demands of the household—and whatever other Michaela requests.

Michaela watches Lucian speaking to others while slowly making her way, escort in tow, towards her sister. When they finally reach Michaela, Lucian uses one of her wings as a fan, covering her mouth coyly. It raises Michaela’s suspicion since Lucian is never coy unless it suits her. 

“Sister,” Lucian announces, setting the tone of a family instead of court. “I have great news.”

Castiel stills, cutting his eyes to Lucian, and Michaela takes note of it. He’s been her slave for centuries and knows most of his tells.

“I’m pregnant!” Lucian gushes. Her hand is delicately on her abdomen. One wing curls around Castiel’s own, and his flattens against his body to minimize contact.

Michaela controls her temper and does not break her champagne glass or the windows with Craft by forcing out a smile.

Michaela rages in her study by decimating most of the furniture. Her Steward, Zachariah, and her Master of the Guard, Raphael wince. She sets her golden eyes on them before she pronounces, “Have Lucian return my pleasure slave at the soonest.”

Both the Steward and Master of the Guard agree with the pronouncement. 

“No one touches Castiel other than me!” The gall of Lucian to get pregnant before Michaela.

Zachariah, by either idiocy or bravery, clears his throat to ask, “Will he still service her while she’s in our eyries?”

Michaela throws a full-bodied crystal vase with Craft over Zachariah’s head. Before she could pick up another, Raphael gently reminds her, “Castiel has impregnated a witch in the coven, a Katelyn Lilly Kline before. The Angelus is fertile, and we have very few births left.”

Their fertility is the price they had to pay for being part of a long-lived race. She should be happy that they would at least get another Blood child, especially with Jewels as dark as Castiel’s. But for Lucian to get a baby first completely drove Michaela insane with anger.

Michaela rubs a thumb over the bridge of her nose to stem the headache that is descending. She vaguely remembered Katelyn. 

Kelly Kline was a White-Jeweled Hearth witch, barely even Blood with her green eyes and pouty lips. A short-lived race at that! She’d forbidden Castiel access to other witches except for her sister after. “When’s that brat’s Birthright Ceremony?”

“Kelly Kline’s child died along with her when she delivered,” Zachariah informs her.

Regrettable, but also very satisfactory. Dorothea Sadiablo would hang her if she finds out since Blood in Terreille is failing. She could suck her own craw. Dorothea’s the one who systematically murdered any darker-Jeweled female or Black Widow who could go against Red Jewel. So she should understand it’s her fault there are no darker bloodlines to breed true.

“Remember, he has rights to the infant until Lucian claims or disavows paternity during his Birthright Ceremony.” Raphael, always the voice of reason. “And someone needs to drain her Jewels during her pregnancy.”

Michaela sweeps her hand across the remaining standing tables. “My sister has a court, with more than twelve males to form one. She can ask any of them to drain her Jewels. Inform her that she can have Castiel only in Mount Ararat. He doesn’t leave with her for Bragana.” 

She snaps her fingers when she thinks of a suitable punishment for the slave. “And tell Castiel only the coven is allowed to preen his feathers.” 

She pushes them out with an explosion of power from her Sapphire, then locks the door and drops her head on one of the upended tables. 

Lucian descends on Mount Ararat ten months after she shared Castiel’s rut. It's where she delivers Jacob Bragana one cloudless spring day. Whether the choice is due to her gloating, or the location's defensibility, Castiel didn’t know. But she’s sequestered her usual eyrie carved in the mountains.

Hannah, another Angelus slave who’d assisted with the birth, hands Castiel the nestling while Lucian is recovering. 

With the nestling’s soft cream mingled with bluish-black juvenile down and the scrunched up squished look that all babies had after birth, he is all Castiel never knew he wanted. Castiel falls in love instantly, cupping Jacob in his palms. He strokes the few light brown strands of hair on his head, scared of the possibility of breaking him. Castiel’s black wings engulf them both enveloping them in a cocoon of warmth.

No matter what Lucian might say of the paternity, it is evident that Jacob was sired by an Angelus father. “Hello, Jacob,” Castiel whispers, rubbing his cheek against his son’s soft one. His heart feels like it would burst. 

Despite being a slave now, and possibly being wrestled away from his son, Castiel is grateful that he has this one shining moment. 

If Castiel was still in the Eyrien’s hunting camps and sired a nestling, Jacob would have grown up an outcast. Growing up as an Angelus in the Hunting camps was awful. Mocking words of Jhinka or half-breed always litter their insults.

Castiel vanishes a few of the loose down for the nesting pillow as he strokes the new light feathers.

Tears spring unbidden to Castiel’s eyes as he takes a deep breath of Jacob’s baby scent. “I’m so very happy to meet you.”

Lucien’s duties as a District Queen requires her regular contact with her sister. It means that though short, Jacob has scheduled visits to Mount Ararat. It is frequent enough that the slaves have given him a nickname, Jack.

While Castiel is also supposed to tend to Lucian, playing with Jack when Lucian has official functions have become moments he looks forward to. 

It is with one of these visits that Jack complains about his Craft lessons. “But, Father, I just don’t understand how to make a witchlight!”

Whenever Jack tries, there is a sputtering flicker of brightness before it peters out into little fireflies then disappears. Castiel watches his son’s attempts a few times more before he straightens from his chair and sprawls next to him on the floor.

Castiel’s Craft lessons had all been informal but witchlight is simple. He demonstrates the basic Craft to Jack repeatedly, while his eyes flare blue at each weave. The Craftwork floats and dances around them like bright but elusive stars.

“We just need to translate heat and light into a spell and thoughts,” Castiel tries to explain. He doesn’t have a lot of theoretical knowledge and soon would need other people to see to Jack’s learning.

Jack, a little over six summers, pinches his lips together and tries to copy the Craftwork, but fails to keep it powered. “It’s not the beginning of the spell, Father. I can make it, but it doesn’t seem to last.” He sweats as he pulls the weave.

When Castiel draws on power for another demonstration everything goes wrong. 

Castiel loses what little power he had been holding for the weave. There are dark spots encroaching at the edges of his vision before he drops to the floor, lightheaded. Jack triumphantly shouts at an enormous ball of witchlight floating on top of his palms, more substantial than what Castiel or Jack had been attempting earlier.

“I did it, Father, look!” Jack exclaims, giddily tying off the weave and floating it in the air. When Castiel doesn’t answer, Jack looks towards his father and sees him dropped to the ground breathing heavily. “Father!”

Craft forgotten, he scrambles to his father’s side and tries to shake him awake. Castiel clasps Jack’s hand in his own, his eyelids still closed, “Well, that was... What did you do, Jack?”

Clutching the edge of Castiel’s coat, Jack shakes his head. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Hush, Jack, it’s all right. Think back, you can do it,” Castiel encourages while catching his breath and ignoring the ringing in his ears. “We won’t learn what went wrong if we don’t evaluate.”

“Um, well, I was doing the witchlight like you were showing me,” Jack says slowly, his eyes distant, trying to recreate the moment. “And I really wanted to power it, but I couldn’t get any.”

Understandable. Before the offering, it’s difficult to focus or access the abyss. But once gained, the Jewel can store and focus power making everything simpler.

“And then suddenly, I could feel something there, so I took it!” Jack says triumphantly.

The ringing in Castiel’s ears has become a loud clang that beats in time with his head, heralding a headache of massive proportions. “I think you yanked on mine.” It was unheard of. If the inner barriers of the mind are intact, it shouldn't be easy to steal power. “Let’s test it.”

“What? No!” Jack’s wings spread in denial, as he tries to intimidate by making himself larger. 

Castiel, being centuries older, ignores the juvenile posturing. He grins lazily, gathering a light thread of power. “We won’t know if it’s true until we try. Here, this is the lightest I could filter. Try it again.”

At least Castiel doesn’t faint when Jack does it a second time. His gaze might have glazed slightly and choked when explaining, though. Whatever Jack’s ability is, Castiel isn’t qualified to teach him. But Lucian would definitely take an interest.

“Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself, Jack,” Castiel says once they both manage to remain awake with this… Leaching of power, for a lack of a better term to call it. “We’ll try to focus on shielding lessons for now.”

Jack nods solemnly in agreement.


	3. / Kaeleer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Prince** —a Jeweled male equal in status to a Priestess or a Healer; Also a formal address used for both Princes and Warlord Princes. It does not necessarily mean that he rules a particular area or territory.
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Rowena spots John Winchester across the bar. She’s been waiting for him since she’d spun her web. It’s good that he hasn’t left the District, as he’s wont to do. 

It has been seventeen years since the death of his wife, and Prince John is still roaming. He and his sons move from Province to Province, attempting to find a Queen that would fit with them the same way Mary Winchester had grounded them. All attempts have failed, though they try. He wears his failure to protect her by the stoop of his shoulders and every gulp of warm ale. A man haunted by the past and unable to move to his future.

The bartender serves him one tankard as Rowena slides on the stool beside him. Ellen, the road house proprietor, nods at Rowena before serving her other patrons. Rowena’s reputation as a strong Black Widow around these parts is an advantage. They remember her visions but fear her training in illusions and poisons more.

“You need to stop this drinking binge that you’ve been on, get to Terreille, and resume smuggling Warlord Princes. Find those with potential to blend in,” Rowena announces.

John Winchester takes one look at her Gray Jewels and swallows whatever protest was forming. As a Green-Jeweled Prince, his Jewel is dark enough to be just above the dividing line of power with dark and light. But Rowena being a Black Widow and a Gray far outranks him.

“I would ask how may I serve, but you’re gonna tell me regardless,” John quips before he takes a gulp of his drink.

Ah, pluck from a Prince. Very refreshing. Mostly, when they see the Gray, they either pander or wet themselves. It’s uncommon to find someone who doesn’t care and is reckless enough to show it. 

“There is Light in Terreille that will be snuffed out soon if you do not go to it, Prince John. Just as the Queen of the Darkness is facing her own trials, the Prince of Light must also run his own gauntlet.”

John slams his glass over the countertop, the pale liquid spilling over the rim. “Crossing over to Terreille already cost me my wife. I will not lose my sons over some prophecy.”

The words flow over Rowena, but she lets it pass. Males are always stubborn in the beginning, but she’ll get her way. Winchester is no different. “Your sons were young when you crossed the first time. The Prince was not yet in place when Mary’s prophecy was told. You were saving some, but not the right ones.” Rowena also has darker Jewels than his wife and has been a Black Widow longer, being of a long-lived race.

“Leave my wife out of this,” John Winchester growls, heat fueling the words. 

“Your wife sacrificed herself to this cause; don’t let it be in vain.” Rowena calls in papers and places them on the countertop. “These will admit you to the Light Prince’s court. You’ll need them when crossing in Terreille. I’ll be in the Altar at Askavi in a fortnight waiting to open the Gate. He’ll be where I send you, Prince.”

Rowena taps the papers twice with one sharp black fingernail before walking out of the bar. She catches the Gray radial winds to Dhemlan. Prince John will take it. If not because of guilt, then because of his curiosity. His wife is gone. He’ll likely want to see the tangled web play until the end.

Mary Winchester undoubtedly sent her husband to save the Prince of Light. John had smuggled promising Princes untainted by Dorothea but they’d not been the ones they needed. Angry winds are rising. There are murmurs in the abyss and the Twisted Kingdom about the Queen of Darkness. It’s time for the Prince of Light to surface as well. 

Dean sets the last of the plates on the table and checks his pocket watch. His brother Sam is coming back from the library soon. And John, who usually takes a side trip to the bar for a pint before coming home, will also be ready to eat by now. 

Since Dean is a Hedge Warder who does his work at the early hours of the morning, he’s home before the two of them. Consequently, cooking duties fall to him. Sam, being the youngest, gets cleaning duty.

He sets a warming spell on the meal and tastes the stew that was thrown in the pot. Simple fare, but it wasn’t like Dad to complain. Sammy would mutter about salads, but as long as he’s not the one gathering lettuce in the middle of winter, then he’ll eat what’s served. 

Sam arrives earlier than their father. The youngest Winchester tugs the sherpa lined knitted cap off his head, dusting the snow onto the front doorstep. Snowflakes are crusted into the ends of his longish brown hair, where the cap hadn’t covered it.

“Dust your icicles off on the porch, you heathen. Don’t track all that snow on the floor,” Dean reprimands as he scoops the stew into a generous wooden bowl and unwraps the bread. He’s happy with his arrangement with the Widow Braeden, whom he trades a few pieces of meat for her supply of freshly baked goods.

Sam scowls but follows the instructions, blowing in icy air in his wake. He hangs his coat and takes a deep breath. “Smells good, Dean. I’m so hungry. It’s cold out there today. I don’t think I would have survived without the warming spells in the clothes,” Sam says as he takes his seat at the table then reaches for one of the serving spoons.

Dean bats his hand away. “Wait for Dad,” Dean lectures sternly as he brings out a glass of milk for Sam and two wine glasses.

Sam makes a face at the milk and gives Dean an incredulous look. “I’m  _ twenty_-three, not three. I think I’m old enough for wine.”

“Not until you pass those certifying exams, you ain’t.” Dean grins at his brother’s horrified look, but Sam doesn’t complain more. The tall youth settles for rubbing his hands to get warmth back into them while waiting.

Eventually, John Winchester comes in, a frown etched in the deep lines of his face. He’s absentmindedly putting away his wet coat when Sam gives Dean a betrayed look for his silence. 

Dean glares, sending a message on a psychic communication thread, *He’s Dad. Shut up. I can clean the floor.* 

When John finishes keeping his clothes, he looks up to see Sam and Dean, slightly startled at their presence. He rubs his beard sheepishly before he sits with them. Throughout the meal, he is preoccupied, barely touching the stew, and dipping the bread in but scarcely eating anything.

Silence clouds the table before John turns his attention to his sons. His hands are steepled, but his shoulders are slumped in resignation. “Shortly after Sam was born, your mother saw a vision in a tangled web.”

Both Sam and Dean’s backs straighten. Their dad never talked about their mom’s visions, not since her death. 

Twenty-two years and Dean still remembers the time she’d seen the vision that changed their lives. He hadn’t realized at the time, but she had prophesied her own death. 

Dean blinks as his dad brings him back from his memories to the present. 

“Your mother had said that we must go to Terreille to save a Prince. A Prince of Light.” John closes his eyes as he leans back against his chair. “Tonight, a powerful Black Widow approached me with the same prophecy. The Prince of Light is lost if we don’t bring him to Kaeleer.”

Dean’s heart sinks, looking around. Theirs is a tiny but well-kept cottage in the middle of Kaeleer Askavi. They are not part of a court, but it had been home. Two rooms for John and them, a compact kitchen that served as their receiving room and time for meals. 

Dean and Sam are both Blood and get decent work. Sam has also said that he wants to be Solicitor General someday. This is the longest that they’ve stayed in town without entering court, mostly because Sam is trying to study law. 

They’d been content here even if they were on the outskirts of the Eyrien population and the court. They’d been accepted, Sam would go to school, and even John had found peace with the guard. The Eyriens always respected men who could fight, regardless if they had wings or not.

Maybe it’s a bleed-off from Dad’s own migratory heart, but neither of them has found Queens who felt right for them, and an apprenticeship to a Blood merchant didn’t appeal to Dean. At least, not until the last tangled web his mother wove has been fulfilled.

Sam’s hands were clenched into fists. “We already failed to do that once, and it cost us Mom. Please don’t tell us you’ll go back to Terreille again!”

John’s eyes open as he regards his younger son slowly then nods decisively. “You may stay here in Kaeleer Askavi and finish your schooling. I’m sure Lady Rowena will be happy to provide seeing as she’s the one who wants us to go. You can apprentice with her son.”

Sam’s face morphs from pinched anger to one like he’d bitten a sour lemon. Prince Crowley is not the easiest of taskmasters. The Prince had closer ties to Hell than Kaeleer but was still Solicitor General over Kaeleer Dhemlan. 

Dean knows that Sam is taken aback by the suggestion. Dad has always been adamant about keeping the family together.

John’s attention swivels to Dean as he raises his eyebrow up in silent question.

“How are we getting there?” Dean asks, intrigued, and tries to plan for the trip.

Shaking his head, John hands Dean two sealed envelopes. “Apparently Lady Rowena has connections in high places. She brought us these introductions to a court in Askavi Terreille. From there, we can get into the court that has the Prince.”

“And she’s sure of the location this time?” Sam demands. Between the two brothers, it’s Sam who always questions. Dean winces at the tone. “It’s not just some vague hunt where we’re looking for some Warlord Prince that isn’t there yet?”

“Oh, if there’s one thing that we’re sure about Lady Rowena, is that she’s very powerful and very accurate. The Prince will be there,” John says wearily. “Your mother, Lady Zhara’s Black Widow, and Lady Rowena have all prophesied this Prince of Light. Ignore one at our own peril… But all three?”

With a decisive nod, Dean gathers the letters. “I’m in. Mom would have wanted that.” And for Dean, that was all that mattered.


	4. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This is the chapter where there is a definite rape scene. Please look at the [end of chapter notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372778/chapters/58785112#chapter_4_endnotes) for further clarification.
>
>> **Warlord Prince** —a dangerous, extremely aggressive Jeweled male; in status, slightly lower than a Queen
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Lady Michaela waves an imperious hand at Castiel as she suns her wings. 

Trained since he was young by her whip, if not her temper, he takes the soft cloth, dabs it in the bowl of water and oils Michaela preferred and wipes the stretched out limbs. It smells of musk and patchouli that is found in Askavi summers, well below the mountains. Castiel himself prefers cardamon and sandalwood, but he rarely chooses what he preens with.

Castiel strokes the phalanges of her wings, kneading the leathery membranes between them. He works on one section until it is supple and gleaming, before moving on.

Michaela moans, reveling in the heat of a Warlord Prince at the cusp of his prime. His sexual heat, the part of the Warlord Prince’s nature designed to entice a female, washes over her. She’s been enjoying it since his maturity.

“You’re really good at that,” Michaela compliments while her eyes closed. She pillows her head on her arms underneath the bright wintry sun. Michaela built the eyrie bathhouses with a clear glass opening. It allows sunning while savoring the natural hot springs, regardless of the weather. 

“Silent again, Castiel?” she says with the sharp sting of warning when Castiel doesn’t respond.

Castiel knows not to take the bait. The Ring of Obedience around his member has always been a painful yet effective deterrent. And if that doesn’t work on him… There are worse things than pain.

“Hmm, you’re getting shabby again,” she comments, continuing her one-sided conversation. She trails her fingers on the tail ends of Castiel’s primaries, stretching them in front of her, making the angle awkward. “Make sure to ask someone to groom your wings before Lucian comes for a visit. It wouldn’t do for her to see my slaves unkempt.”

Some of his feathers rustle at the insult, and the sour taste of contempt lingers on his lips. It’s too late to wish for nestmates to tend to his wings. They are long gone. Even if he finds someone he would willingly ask for the intimacy, Michaela has forbidden it anyway.

Michaela starts talking again, absently stroking his longest feathers. Her thumb rubs along its shaft. “Jack is coming with Lucian next week for an extended visit.”

Castiel grits his teeth but forces his hands to continue with his ministrations. Any slowing would alert her of emotion. Both that he wants to spend time with Jack and that he’s been counting the moments until the child’s return.

Michaela rises from her perch and twists his face so he’d look at her. “Ah, there it is. You think you can hide from me, Castiel?”

She slips her hand inside his silk shirt. Only the best for her slaves. Especially when her sister will be arriving. “Come, I have a need for you to attend me.”

Castiel has heard that other pleasure slaves could wield cruelty in the bedroom and survive their Queens. That some could destroy witches. Castiel isn’t as brave or as powerful as them. He hasn’t even Offered to the Darkness yet. Instead, his mind drifts as Michaela takes from him what she wants.

Castiel’s wings cut through the wind as he flies along the air currents towards the slave’s lodgings. Michaela built her domain on the jut of Askavi’s extensive mountain range. It requires flight for ease of transfer. Changing his wing angle, Castiel brings his wings high to slow them during the descent. He touches down on the slave’s receiving area.

After a typical morning with Michaela, Castiel wants to soak in the baths. It would purge Michaela’s psychic scent from his feathers. Unfortunately, the baths at the slaves’ quarters are cramped. It is more like a glorified birdbath than the luxurious pools that are in the communal eyrie. It makes for very difficult preening.

Amara told him to be strong because, through Castiel, they would receive the Light. It’s been 700 years. Nothing has changed. He still clings to her prophecy when everything felt bleak, even if he didn’t quite know what the Light meant. His aunt was a powerful Black Widow, and he refused to think she was mistaken.

Hannah waits for him at the pools, as per usual, one wing splayed over the pool sunning and drying, the other curled around herself to conserve heat. The slave lodgings were never warm enough for the harsh Askavi winters, especially here in the mountains. She would feel the sexual heat of a Warlord Prince, but unlike Michaela, she ignores it. If only Queen Michaela, who’s been holding his leash, could afford him the same courtesy. 

She takes one look at his wings and tuts. Castiel raises a shoulder to shrug. There really isn’t any helping it. He divests himself of his clothes and takes a quick plunge in the waters before fluffing his feathers out in the air. The bathing house is one of the few places they could spread their wings. Anywhere else, and the guards treat it as an act of rebellion. They could get a whipping or, worse, be banished to the salt mines in Pruul. 

“She was particularly rough with you tonight,” Hannah comments as she notes his disheveled feathers, and the thick psychic scent that clung around him like a cloud. 

Castiel reaches for his feathers by folding the wrist of his wings. He could only frown at the ones that are farther from his grasp. Castiel is reasonably sure that Michaela is saving his wings for Lucian, which causes him to shudder. If Michaela is harsh, Lucian is ruthless, and her brand of cruelty sinks into his very bones.

“She’s marking her property,” Castiel explains as he rubs the feathers he can reach. “Lucian is visiting.”

Both pity and revulsion blaze through Hannah’s eyes. No one really wants to serve Lucian while she is in court. Luckily for Castiel, he has given her a nestling, making him her favorite. 

Hannah reaches out to touch one of the lower feathers in his scapulars, below his arm’s reach, but he pulls away in time. “You’ll get a whipping, and I’ll get double. It’s not worth it. Those are for Lucian.”

Sighing, Hannah backs away and puts on clean robes. “Come out to the common room once you’re done, and I’ll find you something to eat. You must keep your strength up before Lucian visits.”

Hannah has been a slave in Michaela’s court since before Castiel served. She has been a companion for him and a friend while he learned the ways of the Eryien court. It was a Blessing from the Light in his adolescent years. Especially when he’d transitioned from being a warrior-slave into a pleasure slave.

After preening his feathers as much as he could, Castiel rises from the waters. He arches his back and stretches his wings, feeling all the muscles loosen before he dresses, and follows Hannah.

The common room is a blank space that is a round hallway that opens into the slaves’ rooms. A previous slave had pushed hay in, put in a table cloth, and made makeshift chairs and a table in the center. It formed a cramped dining room where the slaves could talk about their day while there weren’t any demands from the communal eyrie.

Balthazar is already there, a tray of bread and cheese laid out for sharing. “Oh, darling, come sit. It’s manna from the Light, you know.”

A good number of Michaela’s slaves were Angelus, and because of it, they had a shared culture that none of the Eyriens or even the other Blood races understood. 

Castiel hops over one bale, lifting his wings to clear the low tables before settling them behind him, careful that it wouldn’t drag on the floor. “I hope not. Manna is too thin to be filling.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Hannah makes a face as she pinches a piece of bread and rubs it across her fingers. “The wine was spectacular.”

“Good luck on getting the _lady_ to send us wine.” Balthazar serves them the heavy rot gut ale that the soldiers sometimes make. They drank from two mismatched tin mugs and a chipped teacup that the house has deemed unworthy for the guests.

“The threat of beating doesn’t prevent your fingers from pilfering some when you’re within distance,” Castiel reminds him, partaking in his own share of bread and cheese. 

Balthazar’s wings flutter in time with his fingers, waving Castiel’s concerns away. “What’s life without a little bit of risk?”

Hannah rolls her eyes at their antics. 

“You might be interested in other news. There are some Princes from a different court visiting along with Lucian,” Castiel informs them. “It’s why Lucian is coming, actually.”

Hannah perks up immediately. Most of the menial tasks in the house are done by slaves. Hannah most often takes on the children as a governess. And that is lighter work. Castiel spends the rest of the afternoon with Balthazar and Hannah. They worked shifts between their duties, so he wouldn’t be alone with his spiraling thoughts. Thankfully, Michaela didn’t send for him again.

Balthazar watches Castiel over the rim of his teacup. He meets Hannah’s gaze for a moment before their attention turns toward Castiel. Their black-winged brother is regaling them with the most recent exploits with Michaela and her baths. 

Because they are long-lived, it is almost easy to forget that Castiel is still very young. At 700, he has barely left his adolescence behind and is entering the prime of his adulthood. 

Balthazar is a few centuries Castiel’s senior, which is almost of an age in their long-lifespans. He’s been in Michaela’s court for far longer. A pleasure slave broken a handful of years before Castiel was deemed worthy to serve.

The flush of the wine reminds him of the intense heat of safframate. The training, haunts him to this day.

When Castiel trained to become a pleasure slave, he’d been in his 500th year. A time when he could pick up the scent of moon’s blood and the ability to give off sexual heat. He already had all his adult plumage by then and was developed sexually. Castiel has probably tried to repress the memory, but Balthazar keeps it to honor the sacrifice.

[Skip scene]Michaela came to him with an ultimatum.

“Well, Balthazar,” Michaela whispered, flipping a sharpened knife in the air with the tips of her fingers. “You either take the safframate or clip your wings permanently.”

And Balthazar _could not_ live without his wings. They were the only form of freedom he had left. So he took the safframate, a sexual stimulant causing the desire to have sex to obliterate everything else. Balthazar usually blacked out during the sessions. But nothing could erase the drug-fueled want, need, and desperation.

Michaela came to him nightly and played with him daily, partaking in pleasure but not allowing him release.

She brought Castiel on the third day. It was barely a fever dream in Balthazar’s mind. Of a psychic scent so potent and beloved, that he could only whimper and reach his hand in supplication. Castiel drew back from Balthazar in horror, as Michaela’s wishes dawned on him. Balthazar’s lack of choice is all too clear, but Balthazar saw only Castiel’s rejection and keened.

“He’ll get no relief other than from you,” Michaela decreed, and then Sapphire-locked the doors, leaving Balthazar’s chambers accessible to her and Castiel alone.

Castiel resisted one week before Hannah brought him over to Balthazar, distraught, dragging Castiel to the slave’s quarters. 

Outside his rooms, Balthazar heard the smack of flesh against flesh, and later he would learn that Hannah slapped Castiel. Balthazar hadn’t cared about anything other than his need.

Balthazar was writhing on the floor insensate. His prick was rigid, and his balls blue from the drugs. His days were filled with Michaela, hoping that it would be the one time she’d allow him to spill. But she rarely finished him, and if she did, the desire and the hardness did not abate.

“Balthazar is going to _die_ because of your selfishness, Castiel,” Hannah wailed, tears streaming down her face.

Castiel stood rigidly, took in Balthazar’s appearance, turned to Hannah before he quietly left the room.

That night, while Michaela had Balthazar deep within her sheath, Castiel knocked timidly on the doorway. 

Michaela flashed a triumphant smile to Balthazar before commanding, “Come in.” Castiel watched as she rode Balthazar slowly, not stopping even as he walked in. Balthazar’s face in agony as he gripped her hips, begging for release.

The room had been cold that day, blistering in a Warlord Prince’s fury. But a quick burst of the Ring of Obedience hobbled Castiel to let go of his power, and he sank stiffly to his knees.

Balthazar felt the potential for Castiel’s sexual heat then, despite being drugged to his eyeballs. The spicy tang in the air allured him. It hadn’t even reached full potency yet. But Castiel was a Sapphire to Balthazar’s Opal. It was potent _enough_. 

“How may I serve?” Castiel asked hoarsely on his knees, pointedly looking away from the scene.

Michaela dismounted as if Balthazar was a horse. She wiped herself, then lifted Castiel’s chin and forced him to look at her. “Defiance, I see. I don’t need you to love me, Castiel. Hatred endures more.”

She led Castiel by his prick and shoved him on the floor. He crashed on his hands and knees, the sound of flesh hitting the stone punctuating his pain. He raised his head, and Balthazar was there, and so was his length encircled with the Ring of Obedience, right in Castiel’s face.

It was Castiel’s first time to swallow a cock.

Castiel was untrained, but that didn’t matter. All Balthazar cared about was the warmth and relief of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel gagged and tried to pull off to take a breath, but Michaela’s hand was on his neck, shoving him forward. With tears in his eyes, he did his best to inhale through his nose and remain still, letting his friend abuse him, praying for it to end.

Thankfully for Castiel, it only takes Balthazar a few seconds to come, despite the Ring of Obedience. 

Having been deprived for so long, Balthazar shivered under the unskilled ministrations. He emitted wounded noises at the oversensitivity and all but howled when Castiel forgot himself. The other slave had relaxed his lips and grazed Balthazar with his teeth. But the safframate didn’t allow Balthazar to soften. 

Michaela tapped Castiel’s throat, prompting him to swallow. Castiel choked down the gloopy consistency. Then he licked Balthazar clean with his tongue, under Michaela’s watchful eye. She even pointed out the areas still glistening with spend, especially around the ring.

She brought them to her bed and cooed at Castiel for being such a good, well-used pet. He was rewarded with her cunt, as Balthazar showed him what their Queen liked.

Castiel had learned well. He’s been the court favorite ever since. And because he’s proven more fertile than the rest of them? If there was one thing the long-lived races were after, it was children, especially those whose dark Jewels could run true. 

Balthazar has never forgotten how Castiel tries his best for them. How Castiel comforts Hannah and the way he stood up for the slaves when Lucien came made him precious to _them_.

Even now, Castiel tries to shield them from Lucian and Michaela. Balthazar leans close and brushes a crumb of bread from Castiel’s lips. Castiel tilts his head and smiles at his friend, never having held the training against Balthazar. He is their light in these bleak mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balthazar is given safframate, a form of aphrodisiac. Michaela then forces Cas to have sex with him and then have sex with her. The word cunt is also used. The scene starts at: 'Michaela came to him with an ultimatum.' 
> 
> It can be skipped to the next chapter if you're uncomfortable without much loss of the story. If you're reading in a web browser, just click the skip scene and you can be on your merry way.
> 
> Click [[here]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372778/chapters/58782256#warning1) to return to the warnings at the **beginning of the story**.  
> Click [here] to return to the warnings at the **beginning of chapter 4**.


	5. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # 
> 
> **Part II**
> 
> **When making the Offering to the Darkness, a person can descend a maximum of three ranks from his/her Birthright Jewel
> 
> ## 5/Terreille
>
>> **Queen** —a witch who rules the Blood; is considered to be the land’s heart and the Blood’s moral compass
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Dean arrives in Mount Ararat, Lady Michaela’s court, on a Coach designed to ride the winds. The Coaches are riding the Red Winds, which are pretty expensive around these parts since there is a scarcity of darker Jeweled Blood. Dean, as a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and of the same Jewel rank, is the only male who could use them, and others need to travel the lighter and slower winds. But he wore his Birthright Green for the mission, feeling that anything darker would draw the eyes and suspicion of the court. 

He feels the howling winds of the webs and the shielded Coach that resonates with his Red Jewels and tries to remember he is pretending to be a Green. Good thing Kaeleer is a study of being around deep and dark power wells. 

This mission is just starting, and already he can’t wait until he’s back in Kaeleer, where Sam and reasonable Queens are around.

At least Lady Michaela provided them with a good-sized Coach. One that could fit a proper cohort, with the seats two parallel benches facing each other. The Coach has three main compartments. The first one is the driver’s and Red-locked. The other two are for the passengers: the main area where the princes are gathered, and a private room that stems from a narrow corridor. 

It is where Lady Michaela’s Steward, Prince Zachariah, a balding Eyrien with a ridiculously nasal voice, retired. The Steward picked them up from the outpost and then left them to refresh before the arrival.

They couldn’t see anything outside the doors. The moment the driver unlocks the carriage and lets them out, Dean takes a deep breath of the bitter winter air and stretches his legs.

While he knows that the assignment is in Askavi Terreille, he didn’t realize that Michaela’s court is high in the mountains. The first view of it is breathtaking, and a little bit terrifying, truth be told. The landing webs are out in the open, and this late in the winter, deep snow covers the summit with no visible snow line. They are high enough that clouds are blowing through the ridges.

They are in a natural saddle formed by a deep pass between two points. Surrounding them are many trackless windswept eyries that are built into the rockface of the mountains or its natural shelves. The saddle tapers out and inclines to form a flat top, and broad enough for a courtyard and an open natural receiving area.

Mount Ararat feels like a city. But he’s assured this is just the Province Queen’s eyries. The rest of her Districts are below the mountains.

Prince Zachariah is not an accommodating host, he knows why the Princes are there, and he is not there to tour them or show them the sights. He steps down from the Coach with much pride glittering in his eyes as he takes in the Princes, most of them are Eryiens, in awe of their surroundings.

“This is the communal eyrie where the barracks are also located. There are more private eyries. It’s where other visiting Queens may hold court within the different mountains. You’ll gradually become familiar with them if you’re welcomed into any of the Queen’s circles,” Zachariah says with more than a little pride.

“I’ve been in large eyries that would get eaten up by this place,” a Prince mutters. “It’s very beautiful.”

It’s very high up and frigid, is what it is. Dean is a little wary of the edges, but he’s used to the temperature. Breathing in the crisp, chilly air, Dean glances around to note the layout. There are plenty of psychic scents in the air, but as it was with most of Terreille, he feels nothing darker than the Red. Even the Red is very faint and is probably from the Red-Jeweled coachman on rent from a nearby court. Finding the Prince of Light with limited information will be difficult.

Prince Zachariah leads them to the communal eyrie where he’d instructed them to follow Talvunar. The burly Green-Jeweled Eyrien in charge of training them and seeing if they’d be useful as a guard or for any of the court’s circles.

There is the usual male posturing, but Dean let it slide. There is no male whose Jewel is darker than the Green with this lot, and none are Warlord Princes. None of them would battle with him head-on for dominance at least, and he’s free to do his mission.

Before they are ushered into the barracks, Dean looks up at one eyrie whose balcony directly viewed the communal eyrie. An Eyrien Queen is overlooking the proceedings. A light probe with the Green tells him she wears Jewels darker than his Birthright. She’s too far for him to see her features except for the dark hair and membranous wings. 

Lady Michaela, probably. She has an elegant style and a psychic scent that is darker than those present. Their Queen, come to see the Princes she will welcome to court. Dean feels her eyes on him until they’re hidden from view by the house.

Prince Raphael, the Master of the Guard, welcomes them and invites them for drinks. He briefs them succinctly about what is expected of each of them, and what training and membership to the Third Circle entailed. Punishment, when given, is swift, harsh, and worse than Kaeleer customs. Males cannot protest or refute a Queen’s judgment. 

Raphael didn’t say it, but it’s implied that as long as they make themselves available when the Queens want them, entertainment of the flesh is available. With what Dean knew about Terreillian pleasures, he wants to know how to decline those gracefully.

“One of your duties will be Jhinka patrol,” Raphael explains gesturing out into the snowy mountains, with the forest cutting deep into the slopes. “The Jhinka attack the woods still.”

The Jhinka is a winged short-lived tribe. Their raiding party is to be feared because they are relentless, and their numbers could be never-ending. Raphael impressed the importance of the patrol before leaving them to the slaves.

Slaves usher them into their room and hand out refreshments. Surprisingly, there are some whose wings are feathered instead of the dark membranes that Dean is used to seeing with Eryiens. He’d have to remind himself to learn more about them, he thinks as he is helped with his things.

Dean’s room is unexceptional but well-lit with an open balcony where Eryiens could land for convenience. It is usually used by Queens that need tending. The room has all the necessities despite its size.

During the feast and banquet, all First Circle males welcome them while circulating in the Ballroom. The informal dinner is attended by all in the compound, even those off duty guards. Dean meets some Princes whose attitudes are distinctly not Terriellian and might be a suitable match for Prince of Light.

Ezekiel is a tall and lean Purple Dusk Warlord from Dena Nehele. Prince Ishim, on the other hand, is a Summer-sky Prince from the outskirts of Shalador. Finally, Prince Samandiriel is a Tiger Eye Prince from the base of Mount Ararat. All of them are Eryiens.

Dean keeps part of his attention on the Steward since his beady eyes discomfit him while trying to flirt with the slaves, servants, and Warlord Prince Raphael in the meantime.

Queen Michaela rarely mingles with the Princes, and keeps to the head table, sipping a glass of her wine while watching the males and slaves. But her psychic scent is ingrained in the walls. It is in the darker spectrum, as with most scents from Terreille, it raises the hair at the back of Dean’s neck rather than entices him.

Later, a regally dressed Eryien female steps out of the balcony landing. She sits beside Michaela, causing the Sapphire jewels to glitter in her hair from the lights. Her facial features are severe, and she holds an almost sneer on her lips. An equally dark psychic scent follows her. The similar jut of the jaw eyebrow arch shows that she and Lady Michaela are related.

Queen Lucian, Dean assumes. Some males from the adjoining court were talking about her earlier. They wondered whether she would appear at tonight’s dinner.

The other Princes that came with the Coach are unlikely candidates for his mother’s prophecy, so Dean learns only their names and gauges their Jewel rank before moving on. The slaves are Eyriens but there are more than a handful with bird’s wings, commonly white. The only exception is the one who attends Lady Lucian. His wings are feathered and the iridescent black of spilled oil. 

The main dining hall is arranged with long tables and benches that are low enough for the Eryiens’ wings to swing over. Dean sits between Ezekiel and Ishim, to better assess their appropriateness for his mother’s tangled web. His eyes wander to the Main table, where the main triangle of this court’s strength sits, often.

Ishim takes notice and claps him on the back, “Eyes away from the pretty pleasure slave, Prince.”

A good number of Warlords turn their gazes towards the Queen’s table briefly in appreciation, then return their attention to their meals with rueful smiles. It was an easy assumption to make if the slave is seated among the Master of the Guard, the Steward, and the Queen. 

“Who is it?” Dean asks in curiosity.

“As if you didn’t know.” Ishim slaps his hand against his palm on his thigh in merriment. He uses his tankard of ale with a broad gesture towards the main table. “Castiel is the Angelus equivalent of Daemon Sadi in these parts.”

“The Angelus is not as frigid as that cold bastard,” someone calls down from the table. And Dean shivers as they each describe one attribute or the other they admire of Castiel. 

Dean looks again at the table. He’s never seen the Sadist, as they call Sadi, but he’s heard  _ of _ him. The prettiest jewel of all of Hayll’s pleasure slaves. Wearing the Black and ringed to obedience, it’s like holding a lion prisoner, hoping that it wouldn’t get free. 

Castiel, in contrast, doesn’t have the understated elegance of the Hayllian. But the black wings, golden skin, and lithe frame put together a rugged appeal that’s fascinating to these Eryiens. Slaves aren’t allowed to wear their Jewels, and Dean is too far to gauge his psychic strength, but a darker Jewel would also add to his merit. It would certainly add if he has a dark Jewel’s sensual heat during couplings. 

“Don’t let Queen Lucian hear you lusting after the slave,” another Prince tuts. “She guards his leash more jealously than Queen Michaela does.”

Admittedly, Dean rarely indulges in attention of the male variety, he likes women, and there are plenty. But he could see the appeal of this particular one. 

“I’m not here for the pleasure slaves,” Dean says as he takes another drink of the ale they served. While this isn’t a formal gathering, the welcoming feast that Queen Michaela’s court prepared is laden with free-flowing alcohol and a hearty meal. Dean suspects it’s more like aristo meals when it’s just the First Circle dining. 

“Ah, but to dream of  _ that _ between the sheets.” Ishim shakes his head. 

Ignoring the ribald comments that they threw around about Castiel, Dean frowns and strikes Ishim off his list. Ezekiel doesn’t offer any other tidbit, and Samandiriel is too far away for Dean to know of his opinions. Dean gives a mental sigh of relief once they move from Castiel. They talk about the weather (deathly cold,) Eryien training (over the top and likely daily,) and the benefits of being in the Third Circle (serving a Queen.) 

Dean barely escapes being invited to drinks after the dinner. He familiarizes himself with the compound by walking around in the pretense of settling his stomach. As he thought, the psychic scents of those in court are mostly lighter Jewels. None of the darker-Jeweled women are sleeping in the communal eyrie, and Dean could investigate none of that further.

Dean mulls what he knows of the prophecy from his mother, Sam’s insight, plus a bit of what Rowena insinuated when she talked with Dad. 

Someone who hasn’t been in place in the last seventeen years, at least, since his dad has passed through most Askavi courts until he stopped when his mom died. Someone who is “light” and would help them in their cause.

No matter how much he thinks about it, he couldn’t narrow it down. The wine he drank to fit in during the festivities makes him drowsy, and a little bit nauseous. He falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillows without clearing anything.


	6. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **First Circle** —the most intimate companions of a Queen’s Court; traditionally consists of twelve Blood males, including a Steward, a Master of the Guard, and a First Escort or Consort. Blood females may serve in the First Circle, but to form a court, a Queen needs twelve Blood males to serve her
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Dean is no stranger to physical labor. When he was in Kaeleer, he apprenticed as a guard when time permitted. His father is a strict taskmaster and puts him through his paces. That’s why it’s so difficult to accept that he’s behind running circles around Lady Michaela’s courtyard. It isn’t even that physically taxing.

They’d already been in court for a few days, and he still hasn’t caught up with the other Princes in training. He’s starting to think that if Rowena’s letter had not been compelling, he’d have been sent away to another court by now.

The snow-filled landscapes aren’t really the problem. Despite the cold being uncomfortable, he planned for it. But running through the mountains feels like he is gasping for breath. If he could run for hours at a brisk pace before, he is limited to minutes now. He wakes up with his heart pounding out of his chest, and he even threw up after drinking one tankard of ale with friends after training.

“Hey Winchester, we can always carry you if you’re not up for it!” Comes the good-natured needling of Ezekiel, who is more than ten paces ahead.

Saving his breath, Dean raises his middle finger, which earns him hoots from the other Princes.

A sharp whistle cuts them off, and Dean drops in place, gulping air, calming his pounding heart. 

Ezekiel slaps him on the back and grins. “Still panting for breath? Man, you shouldn’t have been out drinking with Prince Raphael.”

Something Dean would have gladly done if this is just a trip to get into Michaela’s Third Circle and not their usual grab and go procedure. Dean and John separated so they wouldn’t be too suspicious. John would never fit in the green trainees as a Third Circle aspirant, anyway. 

John stays in the lower city of Neawall getting the feel of the town and planning for their escape, while Dean’s job is to find out which of the males is the prophesized Prince of Light. Not an easy task when he had to rely on his mother's and Rowena's cryptic tangled web.

“Off to break your fast the lot of you,” Talvunar barks, his membranous wings flaring before settling arched over his back. Talvunar, as Dean learned, is not the worst of trainers. He gives credit where credit is due, is useful in a fight, and isn’t unnecessarily harsh. For a Terreillian, it’s the best Dean could hope for. Warlords in Terreille learn destructive habits to survive.

As Dean follows the trail of Princes to the mess hall, he notes he is one of only three non-winged males, and of the three, only he wasn’t from a long-lived race. Eryiens could live thousands of years. 

Whatever Rowena put in that letter must have been compelling, to take in a Warlord Prince that would barely live a third their life. But Dean's Dark Jewels and his caste might be a factor. Opals and Purple Dusks litter the lists here. 

Dean savors the aroma of the freshly cooked meat when they sit down at the long tables for bread and bacon. He dwells on his ability to investigate the solitary eyries he couldn’t walk to while chewing. It doesn’t bring him answers, but it passes the time before he checks the roster.

He’s on Jhinka duty later today with a set of Lady Michaela’s guard, which means he’s free. It’s a welcome reprieve after the morning beating and warm-up run. Unless Michaela calls him to serve. 

Fortunately, Lady Michaela seems to prefer the winged variety in her bed, and he hasn’t been called for any of the bedroom duties. If he could fight against whatever sickness he’s gotten that has stopped him from running. 

Dean sighs as he walks towards the training yards again to catch up with the Eyrien endurance. He’ll try to eavesdrop for anything useful among the Warlord and Princes in court.

Castiel flies over the mountain tops of Askavi in the brief moments before Lucian or Michaela notices that he is gone. When Lucian and Jack visit, he makes himself available for Jack. But after flinching from the tender mercies Lucian served last night, Lucian sequestered Jack away for a private session.

The Eryiens all know who fathered the child. But Castiel is a slave. He is the one that is usually jostled and shoved until he is offered as a sacrifice so that the other males of the court wouldn’t be hurt by the Queen’s games.

So Lucian takes Jack away to limit whatever time Castiel spends with his son. Curtailing his time spent with Jack is more of a punishment than a whipping Jack is out with his lessons, whatever Lucian decided for the day, and Castiel is barred from the eyries that were gifted to Lucian.

Castiel is flying over the courtyard when the new set of trainees are on their morning runs. Michaela usually tries out Warlords, Princes, and Warlord Princes if they wish to gain entry into the Third or Second Circle. She did so by giving them guard duties and mingling their training with her own eyrie. It is a practical way to see if they could fit in with her court before she decides to either absorb them or send them on their way. Or if she was extremely displeased: gift them to Prythian, Askavi’s High Priestess.

Castiel watches the Princes in their paces. This morning it looks like they are on laps around the courtyard. By experience, Castiel knows that they would probably follow up with forms with the Eyrien fighting sticks. During the run, Castiel notes one Warlord Prince who is lagging from the others, running three arm’s length away, breathing heavier than the rest.

With a controlled dive, Castiel swoops down just in time to catch the Warlord Prince from planting face-first into the freshly plowed snow. Within moments, the cohort is jogging up to him. Talvunar, who is overseeing the new Princes’ training, is elbowing his way towards Castiel. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Castiel?” Talvunar demands when he sees what the ruckus is about.

Castiel ignores the demands and instead weaves basic Craft and casts a bubble of air around the trainee. He cups his hands around the Warlord Prince’s nose, helping him breathe with the air bubble. A simple green brooch peeks from the man’s lapel, a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince, excellent stock for Michaela’s Circle. Powerful enough to rise to the First if he can tolerate the First Circle’s politics.

“Castiel, step away from Prince Winchester at once!” Talvunar repeats, his wings raising up in a display of dominance.

Another Prince, one from a neighboring territory, speaks, “I think Prince Winchester was exhibiting signs of Mountain Sickness, sir. Castiel is tending to him by giving him Craft-fueled air.”

Prince Winchester, finally able to take a few good breaths of the makeshift air bubble, swivels his green eyes to meet Castiel’s own. Prince Winchester matches Castiel’s own deep breathing, and Castiel helps him up from his crouch before the young Warlord Prince could stand on his own.

Talvunar, finally done with being ignored, steps up to Prince Winchester to assess him before scowling. The guard is relatively new, and he’s never trained anyone who hadn’t come from a surrounding Keep or province. He’s never seen the Mountain Sickness.

Castiel lived in Mount Sinai before he was taken and sold as a slave. Even he had trouble at first, adjusting to the height of Michaela’s domain in Mount Ararat. Michaela’s province is well below the year-round snow cap, but it was close, and the high elevations had thin air.

“Castiel, report to Uriel,” Talvunar orders.

Castiel sends one last tendril of Craft to Prince Winchester before he straightens fully. He steps back and gives a terse nod to Talvunar. It wouldn’t do to antagonize the Eryien more and earn more than the whipping he is already bound to receive.

“Wait!” Prince Winchester says, stepping forward. With the air bubble, he’s already regained some movement and is walking faster. 

The Prince is older than Castiel had thought, although it is always tricky for Castiel to gauge the age of the shorter-lived races. It is the freckles and his blonde coloring that make him look deceptively young amidst the Eryiens surrounding him. The lack of wings had also thrown Castiel off. Castiel inclines his head to the Prince and flies off before the Prince could give his thanks. Slaves didn’t need to hear thanks, anyway.

When Castiel arrives at the guards’ lodgings, a complement of Eryien guards is already waiting for him. Uriel is at their head with a ready gleam in his eye. Talvunar sent word through a spear thread, then.

“You may decide to strip or not strip off your vestments, Castiel, either way, you’re getting at least ten lashes,” Uriel says as he regards the Angelus.

Castiel undresses in the middle of the guards’ yard. Having been a slave for so long divested him of shame, it has saved his back more than once. Mostly, what he worries about is having wounds while Lucian is visiting. His modest clothes are removed, Castiel walks towards two solid posts built within the compound. 

The guards closest to him tie his hands to the solid marble, tightening the leather straps until he is all but suspended. His wings are spread and immobilized with a series of knots that would have looked artistic had they not been meant to secure him for the punishment.

At least they hadn’t done the undressing for him. 

“A slave is forbidden to touch a Prince under a Queen’s Circle, even if he’s just in training,” Uriel announces.

There are an abundance of things a slave couldn’t do. It is good that the healing of Prince Winchester only required basic Craft, or he would have received more lashes. Despite earning the Sapphire as his birthright, slaves are forbidden to use the Jewels. 

Castiel didn’t even understand why he did it. He knows that helping a Prince would just get him into trouble, and eventually that Prince would hold the lash against him. Princes are cut from the same cloth. They hurt servants, slaves, and landen women because they could only dream of hurting their Queens. He really deserved this beating. Maybe next time, Castiel would learn to stop before offering help.

At least Uriel did not enjoy inflicting pain, unlike Lucian’s own Master of the Guard, Alastair. Being under that man’s tender mercies is something slaves always tried to avoid. 

“One!” The strikes against his back were nothing new.

Ten lashes for touching a male that belonged to Michaela is nothing. The punishment is over before he knows it, his back hot to the touch, and slick with blood. Uriel did not whip Castiel’s wings. Alastair would not have been as accommodating.

The guards fly him back to the pools in Lucian’s accommodations, and Sapphire locks the area. They would have Red-locked it if they could, but there are no darker colored males in Michaela’s court. They should have realized that Castiel wouldn't fight the shields. He is focusing on rebuilding his back and trying to dull the stinging pain that the lashes cut through him. Not to mention, he has to finish cleaning up before Lucian thinks to check on him.

He rises to his feet with little difficulty. They only gave ten lashes. It is his flight muscles that need testing, and he stretches them as wide as the shields could accommodate before the flesh stings and the wounds open, fresh blood flowing again. He gingerly drags himself to the pool, gritting through the pain and calls in a pouch of herbs Hannah had given him to add to his bathwater for times like these. While the herbs steep in the water, releasing the musky aroma into the warm chamber, Castiel checks himself more thoroughly.

Aside from his back, there are bruises caused by the guards when they yanked him towards Lucian’s chambers. There are scrapes on his arms and legs where he was tied to the whipping post, but they are minor and though red and inflamed, will subside soon. Inspection done, Castiel submerges himself into the water, which could fit three Eyriens. His feathers are well-oiled and fresh from a preening, and he doesn’t worry about them losing too much of their water-resistance, so he sinks those with him.

The water quickly turns into a light pink-tinged swirl of Castiel’s blood with the fresh water, while a thin layer of the herbs that haven’t mixed in floats on the surface. Before he could completely submerge into the water, Jack comes barreling in despite the Sapphire shields. 

Jack has not yet celebrated his Birthright Ceremony and had no Jewel to store reserves of power. Despite that, the nestling could circumvent any shield. He displays this talent now, breezing through the Sapphire without regard.

“Castiel!” the boy chatters on, flying around the bathhouse, not noticing the blood-tinged waters at first. He careens to a stop when the psychic scent of pain registers as he touches down to the side of the pool. “Father, what’s wrong?”

Castiel grits his teeth and tries to form a semblance of a smile for his son as he reaches out of the healing waters to touch the boy. Jack takes after Castiel in coloring with his dark brown hair and feathered wings, although those had turned a dusky white instead of Castiel’s rare black feathers. 

“Nothing a bit of healing won’t fix.”

Jack removes his clothes and dips into the pool, widening his wings to balance himself as he looks at Castiel’s back. He trails his fingers over wounds, testing the skin. There is a flash of power from Jack before he says. “I can’t heal this Father, it’s beyond my training.”

At barely seven summers old, Jack’s training wouldn’t even have started on anything remotely as advanced as healing, even for gashes like these. “It’s all right, Jack. Tell me, what have you been doing with Lady Lucian today?”

“Boring things,” Jack says before shooting out of the pool, spraying droplets everywhere. He calls in his clothes with Craft, and flies. “I’ll come back with someone who can help. I promise!”

Castiel tries to stop the boy from leaving, but the Sapphire locks are in place. Castiel could attempt to break it, but since they are Sapphire, he’d need to use his Jewel’s strength for it. Any use of the Jewel would instantly alert Michaela through the Ring of Obedience. That punishment would definitely be more lasting than a whipping. 

Jack might be naïve, but he knows not to bring his mother to help with any injury that is related to Castiel. 

The last time the boy made that mistake, Castiel ended up needing to heal more than he had to salvage. Sometimes Castiel wonders what would have happened if he had sired a girl. If he had fathered a Queen, Lucian would not deign to bring the child along when she visited Michaela at all.

Castiel settles in to wait, his head cradled at the junction of the pool, eyes closed. He almost forgets Jack’s promise until a whisper of Jack’s power suffuses the shields, which heralds the passage of a Warlord Prince. He is the Green-Jeweled Prince from the courtyard now dressed in loose clothes from town at the mountain base, instead of the training leathers Michaela favors for her Circle.

Castiel panics at the Prince’s presence. He thought Jack would be more discerning of his choice and bring Hannah or Balthazar, at least. Slaves are more trustworthy. Castiel draws his wings together and straightens, keeping his back away from the interloper. “Prince Winchester. How may I serve?”

The Warlord Prince waves the formalities of Protocol away. “None of that, Castiel… right? Your name’s Castiel?”

Castiel bows from his waist as much as the pool allows and keeps his wings tightly covering his back. Despite his mistrust, Castiel is curious about his remedy. Prince Winchester doesn’t seem to exhibit severe signs of the Mountain Sickness anymore. Although the Prince was still walking slowly and with care, his breaths are deep and controlled, and he does not look like he is about to faint. 

“Dean Winchester. Dean. No need to follow Protocol and all that when we’re all alone. Especially since I have to thank you for your air thing.” Dean calls in bottles, and they clink as Dean lines them on the poolside. “All of the slaves were tightlipped on where you’d gone, and I swear that dude Balthazar was about to behead me. You have some loyal friends.”

Castiel cocks his head as Prince Winchester bares his arms and calls in more jars. Once Dean is close enough, the heat all Warlord Princes carry washes over Castiel. It is tolerable, of a lighter potency than his own, marking him with a lesser Jewel rank than Castiel’s. 

The heat rarely attracts other Warlord Princes, but Castiel has never been choosy, and this Prince is pretty on the eyes. It is only polite to ignore the scent, though, and he doesn’t comment on it.

Not minding Castiel’s silence, Dean continues talking, “My mom used to teach me some Healing when I was Jack’s age. Just so I could heal some of Dad’s and Sammy’s—that’s my younger brother—scrapes. Boy, Sammy was sure accident prone when he was a toddler like whoa—”

Dean prattles along as he removes his shoes and then motioned for Castiel to move closer. “Jacko told me you needed help with your back. It’s the least I could do.” Dean is positioned near the lip of the pool, kneeling at the edge so he could reach Castiel without being in the water himself. 

Castiel hesitates, and Dean maintains an open non-threatening pose as if he could waste his time in the bathhouse without consequence. They only have a limited amount of time before Lucian comes in to check. 

With one look at the doors, Castiel slowly turns, his wings dipping low to expose his back to the Prince’s eyes. Castiel hears Dean’s low whistle as he regards the Angelus’ back touching the wounds gingerly. “Oh, man, this is gonna scar pretty bad.”

The lashing will leave very physical reminders, especially since the whip cut deep through the muscle, almost to the bone. The best Healers could do a healing to knit the skin as if the wounds had not existed, but Castiel only knows basic Craft and is allowed very little besides.

“Good thing Mom taught me well, then,” Dean says as Green power surges through Castiel’s back.

Thankfully, healing lacerations didn’t need strength as much as it does a deft hand and coaxing the muscle to knit together. It is more precision work than it is power, and Dean’s touch is gentle. 

The healing Craft, coupled with the strong sweet-spicy aroma of the herbs, permeates the air. Not enough to hide Dean’s psychic scent from Lucian, should she come to investigate now, but enough for Castiel to be able to cover it later.

“What d’you do to earn this, Cas?” Dean asks as he slowly fills each wound with healing power, the herbs help with the pain. It still stings, and Castiel’s muscles involuntarily jump with every run of Dean’s fingers, but it is bearable.

No matter how Jack brought Prince Winchester to him, Castiel could not relax in this Warlord Prince’s presence. Despite the Prince trying to be as non-threatening as possible, there is a nervous energy present. He hesitates and swallows down the sassy response at the tip of his tongue. “Slaves do very little to earn whatever punishments handed out to us,” Castiel answers softly instead. 

Castiel concentrates on the calloused fingers that apply healing Craft and almost misses the flare of anger that dissipates almost as quickly.

“It’s a pity there are slaves in Terreille.”

The depths of the abyss whispers about the Queen of Darkness. That the time of reckoning is coming. The slaves talk about it, especially those who’ve come in contact with a certain broken Black Widow in Hayll. Castiel hopes Dean’s words ring true. 

“How come you have feathers, and Michaela and the rest have these membranous wings?” Dean asks curiously as he traces the base of one wing, where one of the strikes barely missed.

Castiel shifts in the pool. The touch isn’t untoward, but showing wing bases is very much an act of submission. The strokes of another on them is equally unsettling. It is usually reserved for family members and lovers. 

“Though Eryiens and Angelus are cousins and winged, we have evolved differently, like the Jhinka. We are the winter owl to the Eryien’s bat. Be that as it may, don’t let any Eryien hear you say it,” Castiel answers just as Jack flies in.

Jack’s wings fluff when he sees that Castiel and Dean are getting along. “Yay! I knew I found someone who would be able to do it, didn’t I?”

Dean steps back, and he looks at both Castiel and Jack as Jack settles on hovering just in front of Castiel over the pools. 

“Now you must send Prince Winchester away from here, Jacob, before your mother comes and uses the pools,” Castiel says gently. 

Jack pouts, but he knows what Lucian could do to Castiel should he misbehave, so he alights near Dean to tug him away. “Come on, Prince Winchester. I know the best updrafts. We’ll get you safe and warm in the communal eyrie in no time.”

With one last reluctant look at Castiel, Dean follows Jack. Castiel rises from the pools. He stretches his wings to their full length and flaps them to expel the water and help them dry. They feel more brittle, and he must apply more oil, but preening would have to wait. 

Castiel calls in an ointment and applies it on his back on top of Dean’s spell. It is numb from the healing waters, and Dean seems to have done an excellent job of knitting flesh together. His back did not feel slick from the blood, nor rough from the open wounds. Castiel calls in a few aromatic candles and lights them around the bathing pools to further dispel Dean’s psychic scent. Whatever clings to Castiel, he’d have to say is when he touched the Prince the first time and hope that will be enough to keep from earning him another lashing.


	7. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **landen** —non-Blood of any race
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Michaela built Lucian a smaller eyrie in one crag. It has separate rooms within her larger compound in Mount Ararat, and like the slave’s lodgings and the guard barracks, it is almost a complete household.

Castiel spreads his wings as well as an extravagantly plump white towel from the racks to receive Lucian as she steps out of the bath. He tries to leash his sexual heat as much as possible since women like Lucien always assume that the heat is an invitation to touch. She gives him a coy smile as she wraps herself in his offering while he folds her within his dark wings.

“Mmm, I always tell my coven that Angelus wings are the best coat in this Darkness forsaken cold.” Lucian rubs her face against Castiel’s marginal coverts, savoring the feel of the warm feathers, and consequently rubbing her psychic scent all over him. “When are you timing your next molt? I want your feathers.”

Castiel represses a shudder. Typically Angelus molts depend on the season and readiness to mate. Ever since he’s become a slave, Castiel has rarely chosen to molt. He doesn't want to expend the power rebuilding his feathers while trying to heal whatever punishment Michaela has deemed worthy for the week. Especially since he’s not allowed to use his Jewels. Instead, he’s managed to keep his winter plumage.

“I think Jack is almost ready for his molt,” Castiel evades, his hands helping Lucian to dry her hair with another cloth, while his wings settled around them as a warm cocoon. It is why Lucian’s psychic scent is difficult to remove long after she is gone. “His flight feathers are getting disarrayed, and his more waterproof feathers are coming in.”

“It’s not too early?” Lucian shrugs, tapping Castiel’s wings to let her out. Immediately Castiel brings a dress prepared for Lucian, the back split for her wings, with tights underneath the billowing skirts to accommodate flight. “I guess it’s to be expected. I was planning to hold his Birthright Ceremony this Winsol.”

Another wash of terror pours through Castiel knowing that the Ceremony could strip him of all his rights to the child, no matter how little it already was. “If my lady wishes.”

Lucian approaches Castiel slowly, ignoring the dress. “You haven’t given my sister a child.”

_ Careful, careful, Castiel. _ Lucian circles Castiel, taking him in purposefully. She snakes her arms around his waist, getting past the shoulder of his wings, her forehead landing on his back. He’s seen the damage from his last lashing, five new diagonal gashes, with the skin still thin. 

The ointment, the herbs, and Prince Winchester’s healing have aided it tremendously. The thin silvering line is the only sign left. It would have been an angry puckered red without help from the Prince. At least Uriel took care not to maim him.

It is sensitive, and Castiel shudders to think if Lucian would require anything strenuous that might tear it open. Lucian does not mind the fresh marks and bites the muscle where the base of the wing meets the junction of his back. His preening glands remain dry despite it.

“Michaela is very, very possessive of you since you’ve given me a child. She won’t even lend you out for my parties.” Lucian gives an affronted snort. “Imagine, her own sister.”

And thank the Light for that. Castiel had known more pain, humiliation, and blood in Lucian’s parties than Hayll’s own. Time to play the part of a doting slave. “She’s just very jealous of you, darling.”

Lucian hummed noncommittally as she ran her arms around his chest, forcing him to drop her clothes on the tiles. “I’m sure my sister could wait for a few minutes as you tend to me. I have needs, and I rarely see you as it is.”

No matter that Michaela gives Castiel to her sister during Lucian’s visits, Michaela always reminds him he’s hers. It’s why Castiel isn’t allowing Lucian another romp if he can help it. His feathers are already much too steeped in Lucian’s Musky psychic scent. Maneuvering around situations like these to keep the whip off his back has become a dance.

“But you could hardly play as well as you want if you’re rushed, my lady,” Castiel reminds her, catching her hands and giving them a perfunctory kiss before he turns. 

The Sadist might get away with getting the Queens he services addicted to him, but he is also a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Castiel is not as strong as Daemon Sadi, he doesn’t have the head for sexual games to lay courts to waste. So he uses his body, he doesn’t need it as long as his inner self is safe. 

Lucian gives a put-upon sigh. “Yes. My sister reminded me that there would be entertainment this morning.”

Castiel hopes that Lucian didn’t notice the slight pause in his movement when he picks up her clothes at the word entertainment. That is never good. Just last month, whispers reached the slaves of Dorothea’s entertainment, which included a close shave of a man. Castiel isn’t looking forward to the possibility. The mere thought of pissing sitting down is already appalling. And he was a pleasure slave, he would not be able to function. They’d send him to the mines to die if that happens.

Not sensing, or caring about, whatever inner turmoil Castiel is going through, Lucian raises her arms impatiently. “Well then. Dress me for the morning. I’m sure they taught you that well enough.” 

Castiel escorts Lady Lucian on his arms down the spelled courtyard. Chairs had been set up earlier for entertainment. Michaela likes spectacles of punishment in the open. She Sapphire locks the area, and the snow falls around her shields. It is like a box of glass untouched by the weather. The chairs are all facing inward, encircling an unyielding and heavy bench. The slaves have nicknamed it the Breaking Bench. 

It is a long metal chair that secures both hands and knees of slaves that has movable joints. When strapped facing up and the chair is pulled back and down, a master breaks a slave’s back. If a slave is facing down, it is the perfect immobilization for doing anything to a slave’s wings. Beside the bench are a long table and a familiar wrought-iron basket.

Had he been younger, or his Jewels darker, Castiel would have succumbed to the cold of the Jewel’s rage. He’s since learned that the strength of the killing edge might kill some males or Queens, but it would not free him from the pain of the Ring of Obedience. So instead, he uses the sharp single-minded focus from the killing edge to watch and wait.

He leads Lucian towards Michaela and seats himself between the two. The First Circle files in, followed by the new Warlords and Princes looking for a position in Michaela’s court. Castiel wonders if they choke every time she asks them to kneel.

The Eyriens who see the arrangements immediately tense. Prince Winchester, who is not Eryien or from Ararat, looks on with mild curiosity. 

_ Father of Light, he doesn’t know what’s about to happen_. Castiel thinks as he observes. _ He's going to get one of them clipped and shaved. _

Castiel would have pleaded on the spear to spear communication thread if he was secure in his knowledge of this Warlord Prince, but one healing did not make them friends. And he is a slave, beneath even a lowly Blood male outside of the court Circles.

Before he has a chance to do anything, the guards bring out their captive. Hannah is escorted with her wings bound until they are spread and tied on either side until she could do nothing but stare at them in terror.

While shaving hurts the males, Angelus feathers did not have any sensation. When Castiel feels the wind through his wings, it is because of the feathers’ movement. But it cost them just the same to have it clipped. To be robbed of flight when it was one of the few things that gave them joy is to be deprived of life.

Lucian slides her fingers along the seam of Castiel’s pants. Michaela on his other side toys with his wings instead. Of the two, Michaela’s threat to his wings is more provocative than Lucian’s vague allusions to sex.

Uriel brings out broad clippers, chosen because of their size and for show rather than function. He methodically goes through the primaries, with Hannah crying mutely on the Breaking Bench. They are all consoled by the fact that feathers grow back. In contrast, shaving… Becoming a eunuch is permanent.

The closest feathers that Uriel clips bleed and the cloth around Hannah seeps blood. They clipped a blood feather, and they didn't even care. Castiel tenses, his body coiled to strike although he's physically helpless to do anything for Hannah. He watches as the red steadily invade the white as Uriel continues.

Thin filaments from the feathers waft in the air and stick to Castiel’s throat. It saturates the air along with Hannah’s terrified psychic scent and the light tangerine oils she used for preening. Castiel digs his fingers on his thighs and forces himself not to choke.

This may not hurt them, but it breaks them just as surely as shaving will. 

Lady Michaela summons one of the clipped feathers and admires it in the light. Unlike birds, Angelus feathers are longer and shone with an unnatural glow even after being clipped. The stronger emotion tied to the clipping, the more luminescent the power is. 

“This isn’t bright enough for what I need,” Michaela announces as she flicks the feather to the ground. Lady Michaela is known for her feather work, especially since she has an almost sole monopoly of the remaining Angelus slaves that are not in hiding.

Lucian leans forward. “I did bring Alastair along.”

Castiel tenses fixing his gaze on Hannah’s wings. While Alastair is Lucian’s Master of the Guard, all the slaves call him her torturer.

Michaela eyes Hannah thoughtfully. “Very well, sister. Strip her of the down first if you must.”

Another horror on top of the clipping. Down is usually used for pillows and comforters. Angelus down provides more heat per weight than any of the animal feathers. So while poultry is used frequently, if she could, Michaela live plucks the Angelus.

As an afterthought, Michaela adds, “But remember I want her alive. There are so very few breeding Angelus left.”

Jack stumbles onto Dean while the Prince was heaving most of the contents of his stomach onto a discreet shrub. Jack takes one look at him, flaps his wings in distress, but sits next to him in worry.

“Prince Winchester, do you need a Healer?” Jack asks. He worries about the Prince, he’s been sick more than any other who has visited. Why, Prince Winchester has needed healing for Mountain Sickness, and Jack has seen him ask for less brandy with the serving girls claiming an upset stomach. “Are you sick again?”

Dean wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. It doesn’t help with the acrid stench, but Jack thinks it’s impolite to point that out. Castiel always tells him it is best to be polite to unknown Warlord Princes. Jack believes his father is silly. Dean wouldn’t hurt him. 

“Not something a Healer could fix, Jack. What are you doing here?”

“Mother is taking  _ all _ of Castiel’s time. I decided to chase little critters, and then I felt something curious over here,” Jack rambles with excitement, his words spilling over each other. He wonders if he should have said all that, but sometimes, adults need to know things. “Which is how I found you!” 

Prince Winchester frowns as he straightens from his earlier crouch, “Do you get that feeling a lot?”

Jack tilts his head to the side. “All the time!”

Did other people not get that nagging feeling that something is needed? It’s how Jack found Prince Winchester for Castiel the first time too. He needed to find someone who knows some healing, and he just followed wherever his wings lead. When he saw the Prince, he knew Prince Winchester wouldn’t get his father into trouble. 

Prince Winchester doesn’t feel like the rest of the Princes in Mount Ararat, although Prince Samandiriel seems like he would accommodate Jack when he needed to fly. Oh, and Lord Ezekiel is equally kind. 

There are a lot of friendly new Princes and a few Warlords, unlike his mother’s Master of the Guard. Prince Alastair is a hulking Eryien and he always gives Jack the shivers. It’s best to avoid Prince Alastair whenever possible. 

“Do you want to bake cookies?” Jack asks curiously. It is why he is wandering, actually. Hannah doesn’t like it when he plays in the kitchens, and there really isn’t anybody his age in Lady Michaela’s Eyrie. But Castiel doesn’t really get to eat cookies, and it’d be nice to give him something for Winsol, wouldn’t it?

Prince Winchester takes a step back but smiles. “I don’t know any cookie recipes, but my mom taught me how to bake a pie. We could probably make some of that here if we have some apples in storage or even berries.”

“Pie!” Jack’s wings flap in time with his claps of appreciation. “Do you think Hannah will be less mad if we use the kitchen for pie than for cookies?”

Prince Winchester talks about his hometown while they walk towards the kitchen. Jack doesn’t know what charming exactly was, but it must apply to Prince Winchester. The Warlord Prince leaves all the kitchen slaves giggling. No one even bats an eyelash when Jack is allowed to stir in  _ all _ the flour into the mixture.

Prince Winchester must know compelling persuasion spells. Although Jack doesn’t feel any casting in the air, the usually suspicious Head Cook, Dumah, is all atwitter. Prince Winchester laughs and winks at her shamelessly. 

Jack tries to close one eye, but the other always wants to follow. It’s kinda frustrating when one of the kitchen slaves asks him if he’s having a seizure.

By the time the morning is well underway into the afternoon, they have one misshaped pie cooling in the racks, and Jack is covered in flour.

“I hope Castiel will like this one!” Jack says excitedly, his fingers pressed onto the kitchen table staring into the confection, willing it to cool. The cinnamon that they used with the apples tickles his nostrils, making his mouth water.

Prince Winchester’s bark of laughter is genuine and low. “I’m sure he’ll like whatever you give him.”

Jack returns the smile. “Mother will probably give him leave later. Mother said they would attend some kind of entertainment this morning. They’re usually away when that happens.”

A cloud of darkness dampens Prince Winchester at the mention of this morning’s entertainment. 

Before Jack could ask about it, Hester walks into the kitchen, her hands on her waist glaring at Jack. “Young man, have you been playing here the entire time? Light burn it! Lady Lucian will have a fit knowing you’re not ready for tonight!”

Prince Winchester straightens as Jack groans.

“What did you say?” Prince Winchester asks, curious.

The Angelus slave, Hester, is blonde with shorter, more delicate snowy wings. Having only just now noticed the Green Warlord Prince in the room, she is immediately flustered. “Pardon, Prince, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I—”

Prince Winchester waves the rest of Hester’s protests away, impatient. “No, I meant, you… I’ve never heard of ‘Light burn it’ before.”

Hester is now red from the roots of her hair to her cheeks, and Jack watches the two interact, wondering why Prince Winchester found this particular utterance peculiar.

“Oh…” Hester scratches her head before shrugging. “It’s common enough in the Angelus grounds, Prince. We’re Blood, but we honor the Light that gives us Rebirth rather than the Darkness that we all descend to for our living power well.”

Prince Winchester leans in with interest. “You don’t say…”

Hester curtsies before snatching Jack’s hand. “We don’t have a lot of Priestesses anymore. What I know’s mostly scraps from my time before I was brought here. By your leave, Prince?”

Prince Winchester is already lost in thought and didn’t even see Jack wave his goodbye as he follows Hester. Jack wonders what piqued the Prince’s interest but forgets it when Hester takes him by the ear as soon they are not in view. 

“You are in a good deal of trouble, my Lord. A good deal of trouble.”


	8. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Blood society** —the intricate dance between social class, Jewel strength, and caste.
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Dean stands outside of the open courtyard in the communal eyrie. To the South, a colossal and ornate heated fountain stands. It’s large enough for several birds, or an Eyrien whose wings had been snowed on from the trip, to bathe in. To the North is a stone cut raised dais, where the Queen could address her court. The center is filled with snow, freshly shoveled by one of the household slaves.

The Princes and Warlords hoping to join the court had been training when yelling and giggling stopped them from their practice bouts. They watch Jack soar about the spacious open-air grounds, Castiel not too far behind him.

Jack’s movement is erratic, darting from side to side. Sometimes his wings would stop altogether and drop. At the same time, Castiel’s focused wingbeats zoom past the child, his grabbing arms missing him on every wobbly drop.

Dean’s sparring partner, Ezekiel, the one who had stood up to Talvunar and explained about the mountain sickness, whistles lowly as he watches Castiel miss turn after turn. “You’ve got to admire that skill.”

“The kid? Yeah, he’s been evading Castiel really well,” Dean observes as the Eyriens tracks the aerial tag.

Ezekiel snorts. “I meant Castiel. Do you know how hard it is to pretend to almost miss but keep the right pace, so your child isn’t too far for comfort while flying?”

“Not to mention the patience to keep it up for this long,” another observer, Akobel says, resting his hands on his sparring sticks while tracking the two Angelus.

Talvunar shakes his head as he watches the two of them. “The Angelus was trained in an Eyrien camp. He knows how to train an Eyrien male.”

Talvunar is generally a pleasant guy. Unfortunately, because of training or upbringing, he just didn’t see to treat slaves humanely. Dean learned the guard sent slaves to be punished, and severely, for the slightest infraction. It is expected of him.

No wonder Kaeleer proposed five years of mandatory court service under a Queen’s court. It’s so they could be better acquainted with Kaeleer’s customs instead of setting them out in the wild. 

Jack gives a loud shriek, and his wings fold weighed down by the falling snow. All the Eyriens on the ground tense, ready to pluck the child from the sky. Castiel, who is the closest, drops his wings and makes a focused dive until he catches the boy and wraps him in his wings. They tumble into the courtyard, rolling and barreling through the snow.

“Kid doesn’t have a lot of experience flying in this weather,” Ezekiel mutters, the other Princes moving towards the two.

Before any of the Princes check on Castiel and Jack's well-being, two Eyriens descend onto the stone dais. 

The Queens are dressed in the typical Eyrien leather, each draped with a Sapphire Jewel. Dean almost couldn’t tell them apart, except for their Jewels. One had Eyrien wings wrapped around the Sapphire, the other had a pentagram caging it. Their golden eyes are focused on the heap of snow on the courtyard. Lady Michaela and Lady Lucian.

Each male in the courtyard freezes in their place, wings stop in mid-movement, backs rigidly straight.

“Castiel, attend,” the wing-wrapped Sapphire, Lady Michaela, orders.

Dean’s eyes swivel back to Castiel, who is still buried in snow. Slowly, the mound of snow shivers before it moves, the wings opening slowly as Jack is revealed, safely ensconced in Castiel’s arms. 

The boy stands up and dusts his wings. Someone sends a blast of power to help Jack remove ice from his feathers, the reason his wings collapsed.

Dean moves towards Jack and Castiel when a voice reaches him spear to spear, *Don’t.*

*Mother _Night!_ They’ve got to be hurt from that dive!* Dean sends furiously, looking at Castiel, who is taking deep gulps of air, his wings shivering slightly before his arm moves as he attempts to get up.

“Castiel, _attend_ ,” Lady Michaela reiterates, her voice booming across the courtyard. 

Ezekiel’s eyes swing from Michaela to Castiel then to Dean’s again. *If you help him, you will only make it worse.*

Purple Dusk threads of power hold Dean in place, but Dean is a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, he could always break the bonds if he needed. 

The involuntary and feral snarling rumbling from his throat surprises Dean. He feels himself rising to the killing edge, his instinct driving him forward. *I don’t care if I get hurt, he needs help!* Dean protests, about to break through.

Ezekiel huffs in frustration giving all the power into the restraints, *Not you, you idiot, for _him_.*

Castiel finally regains his footing with one flick of his wings and walks gingerly towards the dais. The Princes in the courtyard are barely stepping away to give him room to move. Jack is already with the Queens, Dean having missed how the child got there. The boy’s hand is firmly in Lady Lucian’s own.

When Castiel reaches the ashlar paved dais, he kneels on the stone. Lady Michaela tips his chin up with a finger and moves his head from side to side, the Angelus’ face emotionless. She assesses him from head to toe, her golden eyes resting on the swelling shoulder before moving on to the ruffled wings, looking at the damage. She then calmly backhands him forceful enough for him to hit the ground.

Only the solid ties of Purple Dusk power prevents Dean from moving. Jack’s wings are flat and low, his eyes with barely restrained tears.

“Wait for me at the Angelus statue, Castiel,” Michaela says.

“No!” Jack wails, breaking free from Lady Lucian’s grip and running in front of the slave. “You can’t! You can’t!” 

The males in the courtyard are deathly silent. The bonds securing Dean tighten in warning, although they are fraying with the effort Dean put against them. They hold, for now. 

Dean descends to his Birthright Green to access his power to free himself when Ezekiel’s voice comes through a spear thread, *Darkness take it, Prince Winchester! If you break me to my Birthright Jewel because of this, I will dump you in a horse trough!*

Lady Michaela raises her hand to signal silence, but Jack’s cries were loud and unrelenting. “You may add ten lashes to your punishment, Castiel.”

“Unfair!” Jack protests, stepping forward, his wings are raised in agitation.

“Is it?” Lady Michaela narrows her eyes at the slave behind her nephew. “Very well then, twenty lashes.”

Dean could see another protest coming from the child, but someone sends a burst of power on the Opal. Jack is abruptly silenced mid-hiccup. Dean is suddenly very grateful he hadn’t been ready to unleash his powers against Ezekiel. But the killing edge is still beckoning sweetly.

Castiel gingerly picks himself up from the floor, and bows to Lady Michaela before taking wing to fly.

When the Lady sees that she isn’t getting another rise from the child, she turns her back on their captive audience. None of the males moves as Lady Michaela exits through the stone steps leading up to the communal eyrie. Lady Lucian follows shortly when she assures herself that they aren’t moving.

Dean stumbles forward as the bonds of Purple Dusk let him go. His knees are weak from immobility, and his body taut in anger. The icy rage of the killing edge is singing sweetly in his veins, and he barely steps out of it. If he had succumbed to the violence it demanded, he might have killed one of the Queens, but he wouldn’t survive killing them both. He also wouldn’t complete his mission.

He must figure out a way to find the Prince of Light, leave this place, and meet his Dad, fast. Dean didn’t know if he’d be able to restrain himself the next time.

Castiel’s joints always creak after he is chained to the Angelus statue under the blanket of the snow overnight. He is like an unruly dog that has displeased its master. Had he not been Angelus or Blood, he would not have been able to survive it, especially when the deep winds of winter blow with it the flurry of snow.

Being asked to service Michaela on his knees blindfolded, gagged, and chained to the statue is its own torture. Being humiliated instead of tended to for his wounds is another. It is a common theme in the punishments, the Queens taking Dorothea’s lead with handling males.

Warming spells and the down underside of his wings to keep in the heat is how he survives. It always surprises him that he lasts the night. One day he’s not going to wake up from that punishment. Jack, the poor boy, cried at his side until Castiel told Balthazar to take the boy away. It wouldn’t do for him to catch a cold.

Uriel unchains Castiel the next morning with strict instructions to attend to Lady Lucian as soon as he is warm. There is lingering defiance in Castiel that allows him to define what warm enough is.

Balthazar rushes to greet him when Castiel enters the slave’s quarters. He tucks Castiel underneath a perfectly groomed silvery wing to offer additional heat. Hannah gives him food until his belly could either regurgitate it or choke. He’d need it to gain warmth, so he swallows it down.

Castiel takes a few short seconds to assess Hannah, the first time he’s been able to do so closely since her clipping. The entire fiasco hadn’t forced Hannah to molt, so she’s grounded but at least Michaela hadn’t forced it by plucking everything, just her down. 

“Where’s Jack?” Castiel croaks between the hot broth and thin bread.

Balthazar cards his hands through Castiel’s wings and hair, soothing. “He was hiding out with the village Healer last night, but the Healer would have brought him back home this morning.”

Lucian may not care much about the upbringing of the child, but she wants Jack firmly under her control. She wouldn’t look for him when she realizes he’s missing, but she would punish slaves if he was gone too long if only to exert that control.

“Your Warlord Prince has been asking about you,” Hannah informs him as she clears away empty plates and refills Castiel’s glass. Castiel’s eyes sharpen at the words, wondering what she means. “The green-eyed one.”

“The Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince then,” Balthazar clarifies. Trust a male to notice the Jewel and caste, and the female to comment on his eyes.

“Prince Winchester,” Castiel says, wondering what reason the Warlord Prince has to ask after him.

“Sniffing around for tail he can control, I imagine,” Balthazar answers derisively. There is something in the essence of Blood males to crave service, to kneel to a Queen in power. They haven’t found a Queen they’ve wanted to kneel for willingly for a long time. It is why the Ring of Obedience, something to control darker-Jeweled males, was born. And for a Warlord Prince in a Queen’s Circle? To be denied that service, to feel powerful again, sometimes they took it out on children, sometimes they took it out on slaves. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

Hannah snorts, squeezing the wrist of Balthazar’s wing before she straightens. “You’re too overdramatic, Balthazar. Not all males are controlled by their trouser snakes.”

Castiel almost chokes on his soup. The two other slaves bicker over him, soothing his ragged spirits and cloaking his inner barriers. He armors himself with it so that before he flies to Lucian, Castiel could pretend he is whole again.


	9. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Black Widow** —a witch who heals the mind; weaves the tangled webs of dreams and visions; is trained in illusions and poisons
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

By the time a month passes, Dean still knows nothing about the supposed Prince of Light other than he is an Angelus Prince, probably of a lighter Jewel, and new in court. He should have asked his dad to show him Mom’s tangled web when they last met, but looking at that is useless. Dean isn’t a Black Widow, and he couldn’t decipher a web if he tried. 

Today, he and Samandiriel, who Dean has started to affectionately call Alfie, are on guard duty while Lady Lucian shops in the town. Neawall, the city at the base of Mount Ararat, is picturesque. Its cobblestone paths, like those in the compound, are spelled to emit heat, so no one needs to shovel the snow that falls. The walkways are also slightly curved, so one never sees the end of the road. It is useful for the merchants promoting spending but terrible for security.

The city grows and sprawls, building from the base of the mountain stopping at a natural line, which Prince Samandiriel explains was Lady Michaela’s mandate. It wouldn’t do for Eyries to approach her own eyries. Not that they could, Mount Ararat is easily 5,000 leagues off the ground.

Lady Lucian didn’t bring more than her Master of the Guard, who is acting as her coach driver and the two guards provided by her sister. Castiel escorts her on the left, and Jack holds her hand on the right. It made Dean wonder who the First Escort of Lady Lucian’s court is.

Through the entire outing, Lady Lucian has a possessive grip over Castiel’s arm. She displays him to the city’s aristos like a prized pet that she has artfully tamed. She lets them have a sample of his psychic scent, dark and potent. The aristos are left dangling with want from the sexual heat. It’s a heady perfume on top of the dark psychic scent. All the aristos are panting in jealousy, knowing that they could look, but they could never touch. 

Castiel’s smiles grow shaper through every humiliating display that Lady Lucian does. His eyes are the sleepy gaze of a Warlord Prince approaching cold anger.

Even Jack is unnaturally subdued. Dean has been in court, although he has not been a part of it in recent years. He has seen aristo children, and Jack is the most well-behaved boy by far. Even during this walk around where Lady Lucian has bought almost everything in more than half the shops, Jack has not requested a quick trip to a sweet shop or a toymaker. 

While at the shoemaker’s, Lady Lucian focuses her golden-eyed gaze at Dean. Castiel kneels at her feet, waiting for an extra set of shoes that he would strap on and off. Jack is also being fitted with new shoes, specially made for Winsol. Prince Alfie is unobtrusive at the entrance, his eyes watching the streets.

“Prince Dean, where did you say you came from?” Lady Lucian asks.

“My father hails from Draega,” Dean names the capital of Hayll because it’s the truth and a long, elaborate lie does not serve him. “But my dad and I have been wandering since my mom died, trying to find a court that would fit.”

Lady Lucian hums then leans forward to tap Dean’s Birthright Green Jewel. “Surely a dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince like you would have found a court suitable enough. Especially in Hayll.”

She says the territory name with distaste. Dean doesn’t know enough about Terreillan politics so he doesn’t comment. Lucian takes the silence in stride. “Why are you seeking a position in my sister’s court? Hayll must be vastly different from Askavi. And you’re not even Eryien.”

“None of the Queens I visited seem to fit,” Dean answers truthfully. Lucian and Michaela are both Queens, but even without a long-term contract, he knows he’ll never serve them.

“Jack speaks very highly of you.” Lady Lucian pauses as she angles her foot down and leans back. Castiel slips the new boots on lacing up and buckling until midthigh while she holds his shoulder with one hand and his wrist in the other. Jack is biting his lip in his seat, his eyes on his mother. “Have you considered my court instead? You can serve as First Escort while you’re still… youthful.”

Implying that he will not be for long. Dean swallows an outright protest. He can’t insult the Lady, who is also a Queen, but he definitely can’t be ringed here either. “You flatter me, my Lady, but I’m currently under contract with Lady Michaela and would see it through before I consider another court.”

Lady Lucian laughs before she leans her forehead against Castiel’s. “A very honorable Warlord Prince, Castiel. How long do you think he’ll last if I ask Alastair to focus his tender mercies on him?” 

Castiel flicks his gaze over to Dean for a few seconds before shifting Lady Lucian’s other foot. He concentrates on the laces. “It depends if you truly want him or you just want to lord a victory over your sister.”

“Ahh, the slave knows me very well,” Lady Lucian compliments, a vicious glint in her eyes. Her hands travel to the Angelus’ face and cup it while he continues on with the laces. She rubs her thumb possessively on the apple of his cheek. “Do you know Prince Winchester that it took me several decades to get Castiel to be this docile?”

Dean wouldn’t call this docile. Castiel feels like a Warlord Prince even if he doesn’t show it. He’s a slave and is forbidden to wear his Jewels, but his power well is deeper than the Green.

Thankfully, Lady Lucian doesn’t seem to want or need Dean’s response, she flicks her wrist in dismissal, her wings mirroring her hands. “Go find us refreshments.”

Dean crosses the street to a nearby bakery that advertised pies. He is thankful to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the shoe shop. Though Lady Lucian has done nothing frankly untoward, her bid against Lady Michaela’s discomfits Dean. Not to mention her easy showing off of Castiel. 

He puts away thoughts of the Queen and places an order for a hot chocolate and warm tea. The proprietor agrees to lend him the cups when he learns he is Lady Lucian’s escort. 

While waiting for the beverages, the chimes from the doors ring and John Winchester walks in. He goes straight to the counter and orders one slice of pie before sitting down at a table next to Dean’s. They don’t talk on a spear to spear thread in Terreille for fear of being overheard by a darker Jewel. 

Dad’s eyes alight on Dean and greet him good morning like two strangers meeting for the first time. “You got a light?” His dad shows a pipe which he taps onto the table. Dean has never seen John smoke in his life, but it’s useful code.

Dean shakes his head. 

John narrows his eyes, his lips thinning before he blows out his breath. “The snows are getting heavier. It’ll be difficult to travel ‘round these parts.”

Also, a warning that it would be progressively harder to leave the territory. 

Dean looks out into the street, a light dusting of snow is falling. He added on his layers to keep him warm. Even the Angelus and the Eryiens are keeping their wings tightly folded around themselves to trap the heat. “Not much traveling to do. Maybe after Winsol.”

John grunts in acknowledgment. “The city has several parties for the season. Maybe you’ll enjoy them.”

Dean will be thankful if he doesn’t have to service a Queen during the celebrations, which would become unlikely as more Queens flock to the mountains. But, his father was right, they’ll get more information there. A romp in the sheets and information would be easy. As long as the Queen he partners with didn’t have proclivities that make Dean uncomfortable. 

The server lays two steaming cups down in front of Dean before he answers. Dean nods to his father then calls in some coins for the drinks. 

Before he steps out into the cold, John says, “Be careful out there, Prince. The mountains are treacherous.”

All this talk in code was making the situation more melodramatic than it was. Dean sends his dad a grin. “I always am.” He raises the cups in salute to return to Lady Lucian and her innuendos.

By the time that Lucian decides that they’ve done enough shopping and should eat, they’ve spent more than a fortune and have the merchants send up the parcels to the eyrie. 

Castiel deals with Lucian’s manhandling by separating his mind and his emotions from the deed. It has worked well for him before, albeit he gives up more of himself when he does. His body has learned to enjoy what his mind doesn’t understand.

Castiel has also learned to appreciate whatever they give him. If he basks in it, then Lucian doesn’t get as inventive and try to hurt him. If he could pretend to want her as much as she revels in her games with him, then she doesn’t bother with the rest of the pleasure slaves who are more brittle and would break with Lucian’s care.

It works for the most part, and when it doesn’t, Castiel gets a lashing, chained, or even petty games where she exerts her dominance over him backed by the Ring of Obedience. Castiel’s fists clench. 

Alastair shoots him an oily smile. “Careful, your contempt is showing.”

Alastair had secured a reservation for them in a restaurant, earlier. Dean had escorted Lucian and Jack to the pastry display. Meanwhile, Samandiriel and Castiel wait by the tables. 

Castiel straightens an imagined wrinkle in Alastair’s coat. Alastair’s smile turns rigid. Some enjoy pain more than pleasure, and Alastair is one of them. The thought of even bedding Castiel disgusts him so much that Castiel has learned to use it when he can.

“Is it? Have you tried being under Lady Lucian’s tender care?”

There is an inscrutable flash in Alastair’s eyes that Castiel hones in on. 

“Ah, I see that you have. In the dungeon, perhaps?” A calculated pause as Castiel drums his fingertips on Alastair’s chest. Castiel casts a few seduction spells with every tap. “Did you beg for her to carve your flesh until you were insensate for it, dosed with safframate and aching with need? Tell me, what was worse, the fact that you came and came with no satisfaction or knowing Lucian would never allow herself to be vulnerable that way?”

Alastair slams Castiel’s hand away, standing up so abruptly that he topples his own chair, his nostrils flaring. “Someday, _slave_ , you’re not going to be owned by Queen Michaela. I will enjoy putting you in your place.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Castiel looks away in easy dismissal. 

Despite not being allowed his Jewels, Castiel could stand against Alastair, and the Master of the Guard knows it. Should he be lucky and kill Castiel, Michaela wouldn’t tolerate it. For the first time, Castiel notices Samandiriel, frozen on his seat at the display. Before he could say something to the Prince, Jack scurries to his lap and places a bowl of caramelized popcorn in front of him. 

Being a fledgling, Jack isn’t well versed in psychic scents yet, couldn’t understand them. The itch of being displayed as a trophy in town, and subsequently, the verbal spar between Castiel and Alastair is instantly dispelled by Jack. He instinctively wraps his wings around the fledgling and inhales his light lemon and apple scent.

“You should try this, Castiel, it’s wonderful. We don’t have this back home, but Prince Dean recommended it,” Jack says enthusiastically.

Castiel focuses on his son and breathes deeply to step away from the edge that came with battling Alastair and Lucian. He takes a handful of kernels and pops them in his mouth, but he doesn’t taste them.

Alastair nods to Lucian when she sits. He makes an excuse to tend to the Coach before they need to leave when he goes. 

Lucian’s gaze is sharp on Castiel, she reaches and lifts his chin, moving it from side to side in inspection before letting go. “Sparring with Alastair again, Castiel? You know I would be terribly devastated if something were to happen to either of you.”

Castiel very much doubts that but lets the comment pass. “You shouldn’t be eating this before dinner, princeling,” Castiel admonishes Jack instead, laying his eyes on Dean, who has a helpless look on his face. A common occurrence when dealing with Jack and Lucien.

Lucian huffs, there’d be hell to pay later, once they are alone in her quarters, but she lets the insolence pass for now. Castiel takes his petty victories where he could and leaves it at that.


	10. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **witch** —a Blood female who wears Jewels but isn’t one of the other hierarchical levels (Healer, Priestess, or Queen); also refers to any Jeweled female
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

While Dean walks around the perimeter one morning, he chances upon Jack. They’re in the forests surrounding the communal eyrie before it ascends to more cliffs. Jack has a look of such concentration on his face as he faced an enormous mahogany tree. It makes Dean wonder what Jack was thinking of.

Then Jack passes _through_ the tree trunk. 

_Mother Night!_ Dean curses as he runs towards the tree. It’s three times the boy’s width, and even Dean couldn’t put his arms around its diameter. It looks like one of the oldest trees in the mountain, and the communal eyrie was built outside the shade of its branches.

Dean didn’t know how advanced Jack’s lessons in Craft are. The boy could get stuck in the middle! At his age, he should still be passing inanimate objects through other objects instead of this panic-inducing clusterfuck.

Readying his Jewels, Dean apologizes to the tree if he needs to extract Jack and possibly kill the tree in the process. But Jack pops out the other side unscathed. He has a toothy grin, though some of his feathers were ruffled and plucked.

Dean couldn’t help but run towards the boy, his hands sweeping over his shoulders and back, while his eyes checked for anything that got left behind through the travel. Jack’s eyes round at his scrutiny, but he doesn’t protest.

“Jack! How long have you been passing through solid objects? Who in the name of Darkness is your Craft teacher?”

“I have a friend on the webs, Jaenelle. She visited me when we were younger, and we tried to learn Craft together,” Jack confesses in hushed tones, alerting Dean that this was something that the boy has rarely shared. “She had to say goodbye because she promised someone else that she would never go traveling around Terreille again.”

Robbing the boy of a close friend. 

“Which doesn’t answer the question of who you’re learning Craft from.” Dean dusts off stray leaves from the boy and aligns the feathers that have gone awry. He straightens before saying, “I haven’t even seen you wear any Jewels.”

Jack bites his lip and shifts from side to side, which is highly suspicious. “I don’t have a teacher? I usually read books in the library that Mother or Lady Michaela keeps and try them out. Jaenelle and I tried to experiment before, but that was before she was banned from moving around Terreille.”

Dean closes his eyes against the headache he knows is coming and pinches the bridge of his nose. A child self-learning dangerous Craft. Someone should hogtie Jack until he is at least thirteen and gets formal lessons, not scaring Dean half to death with all of his shenanigans.

“And what do your parents say about all these explorations?” Dean asks wearily as he tugs Jack in the direction of the communal eyrie. The amount of time Jack doesn’t have a governess is surprising.

Jack shakes his head, backing away, which forces Dean to follow him. Jack runs deeper into the forest when Dean chases, shouting back at Dean, “Nothing! You can’t tell them, you can’t. Mother will be extremely displeased, and then Castiel will get whipped because of it. He already has a lot of scars because of me.”

“You had him _whipped?”_ The shock stops Dean from advancing further, and following Jack only drives him to panic, which is not what he wants from the kid. 

The suggestion halts Jack, horror palpable when he screams, “ _No!”_ The protest is not only heard, but it reverberates through the trees, causing the snow-laden leaves to drop the heavy ice onto the ground. 

“Do you know what my mother said when I was younger and whacked a table with a wooden sword? ‘No, child! Never hit the antiques. If you really want to practice your sword fighting on something _you may hit Castiel,’”_ he emphasizes the last with barely leashed anguish.

It stuns Dean. The slaves are given severe punishments, often disproportionate to what they deserve, but this is another level of cruelty that he hadn’t even begun to imagine. A slave and a whipping boy for an aristo’s son? 

“Fine, fine. I won’t tell anyone, I swear,” Dean promises with all sincerity that he could muster. Jack responds by turning towards Dean. Thankfully, he didn’t fly away, or Dean would have a much harder time trying to get through to the kid, but Dean only felt at ease when Jack’s wings settled behind his back.

“All right, thank you,” Jack whispers as Dean slowly walks towards the child.

“You’re Blood. Your mother should pay for your tutors.” Dean suggests lightly when he reaches Jack, holding his hand. 

Jack sighs as he kicks the snow, his boots light on top of it while Dean sinks a good one or two inches in the snowfall. Another Craft enhanced spell that is prevalent in the mountains.

“My previous tutor thinks I’m useless. I didn’t fail the tests, but I can’t quite do what other children do,” Jack admits reluctantly.

Dean furrows his brows, he hasn’t seen Jack do more than pass through a solid object. But that Craftwork alone is remarkable, showing he didn’t panic easily. “Would it be okay if I touch your mind and check?”

Jack lifts one shoulder up, which Dean takes as consent. Dean reaches for the barriers of Jack’s mind and goes through the ones that Jack has opened. He finds the psychic thread he needs and plucks at the threads steadily in descending order. The thread hums with the vibrations until finally, a deep resonance strums around the Opal.

The Opal is a good Jewel, the dividing rank between the lighter and the darker ones. It is both light and dark. When Jack makes the Offering to the Darkness, he could descend to a darker Red.

The tone has a strange quality. When Dean plucks the Opal again, a resonating hum vibrates within both his Red Jewel and his lighter Birthright Green. He didn’t have that with his mom when she taught him. Putting away the mystery for later, Dean ascends from the inner barriers of Jack’s mind. Finally, they are connected only through the hand that Dean is holding.

“You know, I could teach you some basic Craft when I’m free,” Dean offers. And he won’t be as condescending as those aristo pricks that would make fun of a non-standard learner like Jack if that’s the case. “I don’t know a lot, mostly it’s for use around the house and guard duties, but anything complex your tutors will teach you, anyway.”

Jack’s eyes brighten at the suggestion, his wings flapping in the air in excitement, and he flies around Dean in circles. Dean laughs as he tries to get his bearings, trying to spot the sun. But the trees are tall, and Jack’s panicked run brought them deeper into the forest than Dean expected.

Dean checks the snow for the tracks they left, but Jack’s are conspicuously absent. A harsh predatory cry from the distance causes Dean to tense, searching the treeline. The forests and the deep valleys between the eyries are perfect for Jhinka raiding parties. 

All at once, the stillness in the air is interrupted by hundreds of vicious Jhinka appearing out of nowhere. Their battlecries are rendered in screeches and hisses as they attack. Dean pulls up a shield as close as he can while including Jack as the wild swarm surrounds them.

The Jhinka, like the Angelus, is a patriarchal clan joined by tribal chiefs. Hopefully Dean would find and kill the war leader quickly. He has an advantage of wearing Jewels since they didn’t, but their numbers are not to be sneered at. Especially for a lone Warlord Prince and a boy barely learning Craft.

Jack steps closer to Dean, instinctively holding on to his pant legs as he stares into the darkening skies covered by the winged creatures. Cursing, Dean holds his shields while sending out power in the Red Jewels, like little bombs popping outside of the safety zone. 

One of the offensive spells his father taught him is in his Birthright Green pendant. He triggers it by pointing to the nearest Jhinka. The spell hurls an invisible spear of power, skewering the Jhinka in its wake. The instant one Jhinka falls, others take their place. They step over the dead bodies of their comrades and attack the invisible walls brutally.

*Jhinka attack!* Dean sends out in a general spear thread, hoping that someone is close enough in the compound that could hear his sending.

“Do you think you can hold a shield and run for home?” Dean asks as the Jhinka batter his shields, banging their weapons against the protective Green. 

Disregarding the lie of his Jewel rank, Dean calls in his Red ring and braids his more durable Red shields over the Birthright Green. The Jhinka are unlikely to tell, and Jack is too inexperienced to sense the power. While the Green could probably withstand the Jhinka, Dean wouldn’t take chances with Jack’s life.

The child is trembling by Dean’s legs, his eyes fixed on the blood that had spattered on the shields when Dean’s Green Jewel sent out its controlled bursts. 

The massive attack is draining the Red Jewels gradually. When Dean checks on the reservoir of power, he calculates that he could hold out for more than a few days under the attack. The guards should find them by then.

But he has to consider Jack, who looks like he’s never seen a Jhinka up close. The trauma alone of the killing will haunt the child for weeks after this. 

Dean pushes out the shield to make it wider making space above his head and enough room to lie down if they needed to. It drains the Jewels faster, but even if he was shielding the communal eyrie, the Red could probably hold for a few days before his shields drain the reservoir. He’d sacrifice the power just to make Jack feel less shut-in.

Deen kneels to look at Jack properly, to see the boy is ashen, his wings and lip quivering. Turning Jack towards his chest, so he wasn’t facing the Jhinka, Dean grips the boy’s shoulders. He gives Jack a tight hug. “Hey, it’s your first Jhinka raid, right? Are you going to brag to Prince Ishim that you got here before he did?”

The question earns him a half-hearted smile. “I could help you with the spell to kill them,” Jack offers tentatively. “I could make your spell kill them all.”

Dean blinks. Complex spellcasting should be almost impossible for someone who hasn’t received Jewels from the Birthright Ceremony yet. Without the Jewel, Jack would have no repository of power or object of focus for the spell.

“I dunno. I was able to push the shields back, so maybe I can make a tunnel all the way to the communal eyrie,” Dean suggests instead. “There are more able-bodied males there, and we could fight them off without having to drain my Jewels.” 

“That’s just going to lead them to the eyrie. It’s all right,” Jack reassures him, the initial panic that had been present earlier, only seen in the tightness around his eyes. “Gather your power. If it doesn’t work, we could still make a tunnel through your Birthright Jewel.”

Dean stands up to ground himself while holding Jack’s shoulder. The Warlord Prince descends slowly into the Darkness, going through the psychic abyss as his inner web meets him. 

Once deep enough, he draws out the reserve power of his Red, dissolving the outer shield and leaving them with the Green. On his ascent, he prepares to unleash the spell when suddenly the webs are _yanked_ out of his hold.

When Dean opens his eyes, the Jhinka around them are gone. In their place, big droplets of red fall in a torrent with chunks of matter that Dean didn’t examine too closely. The slush is melting where the Jhinka blood dropped, and the trees are bathed in red. The Green shield is still standing, keeping the snow inside the circle pristine, save for the lone circle of blood before Dean pushed out the shields. 

Exhaustion overtakes him, and Dean drops to his knees. Dean taps his Red Jewel and finds it’s drained. He vanishes them before he hugs Jack close, fitting the child’s head on the crook of his neck. 

“Sweet Darkness, what did you just do?” Dean asks as he takes a good look at Jack’s terrified face.

“I can leach power, Prince,” Jack admits. Power could be stored in the Jewels, and they could be used by the Jewel’s owner, but Dean’s never heard of threads of power taken after a dive into the inner webs. The surrounding devastation definitely used more power than all the Red Jewel Dean possessed. “And I resonate very, very strongly with you.”

Dean wants to ask more about that, but the black in the periphery of his vision is winning. He barely has the strength to wrap them both in a warming spell before he falls face-first into the snow.

Word of the Jhinka attack reaches the eyrie after the loud sending through the spear thread. Castiel, who is with Lucian feeding her lunch while she bathes in the pools, hastily calls in a robe and drapes it around himself, having a bit of difficulty with the wing holes.

*Jack!* Castiel sends out on a wide spear thread. He lets the strength of the Sapphire wash over the nearby mountains. Hoping that he could power it far enough to reach his wayward child, even without Jewels, he flies. 

There are a couple of shouts, mostly from other slaves. Balthazar’s inquiring thread passes through and is concerned, but no response about Jack. The guards didn’t even bother with a slave’s call.

Lucian holds his arm to stay his leave before he brushes it away thoughtlessly. He’d pay for that later. Maybe not in whiplashes, but something more personal. 

“Jack’s your son,” Castiel growls, tying the robe around himself, his feathers ruffling. “You should show some concern.”

“He’s fine,” Lucian answers dismissively as she leans towards the lip of the pool. “He’s probably off at that Darkness blighted Angelus statue singing to the witchblood.” 

“I’m not taking any chances,” Castiel growls as he takes wing going through the bathing rooms wide arches and bypassing the main doors, exiting through the balcony. 

When he reaches the training grounds, there is a flurry of activity while the First Circle and members of the guard move about their tasks.

Each of the guards is busy handing out weapons and organizing the Blood males into defenses. They are for the shields and possible attacking forces. 

There is no response as Castiel alights on one of the empty landing spots. He sends out a call through the spear thread again.

Nothing.

Worry gnaws at Castiel’s heart as he goes towards the Angelus statue, but the snow there is untouched from last night’s snowfall. He hurries towards the kitchens, where the other slaves were organizing rations. 

Castiel snags Hannah, who’s been relegated to the kitchen staff since her clipping. “Have you seen Jack?”

Hannah shakes her head, sets down a pot, and wipes her brow. “Were you with Lucian? He usually stays in the gardens if Lucian monopolizes you.”

When isn’t Castiel with Lucian? Castiel is usually gifted to Lucian when she’s at Michaela’s Court. But she’s been uncannily clingy recently.

Castiel makes an entire circuit of the inner grounds, most of the eyries, and Jack’s usual hiding places. A vice steadily clamps around Castiel’s heart. It’s already been several hours. 

Castiel senses the Sapphire shields, both Michaela’s and Lucian’s, snapping into place around the central compound. All the eyrie inhabitants have been herded towards the communal eyrie. It’s where they’re put to work with preparing for a long-term siege.

If he isn’t busy trying to find Jack, Castiel would applaud Raphael’s strict command of the eyrie in lockdown. He flies towards the slave quarters, empty now, where things have been left in haste. Castiel swaps the robe he’d put on when he left Lucian with a more sensible breeches and shirt and sets out to widen his search to include the surrounding forest. He follows the faint psychic scent, and uses both spear thread along with Craft, calling out to Jack.

When Castiel finally finds Jack deep into the woodlands, Castiel doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. There is a slick drip of sanguine fluid unchecked around them that smells strongly of iron. He inhales and notes a humid quality to the air that usually isn’t present in the Mountains. Jack is clinging to Prince Dean’s lapel in an inner circle that is untouched by the congealed mess. Castiel almost slips on it when he lands. 

There are rivulets of clotted blood around the shield protecting Jack and Dean. It makes the usually undetectable dome visible. Green, Castiel notes as he steps through the barrier. It has the resistance of taffy but is manageable with his Sapphire. He uses the lightest of touches, careful to cross the shields without breaking the Jewel generating it.

Jack looks up at the rustling of Castiel’s feathers, and he lets go of the exhausted Warlord Prince to run towards Castiel’s waiting arms. Castiel had gained a faceful of blood when he passed the shields, and Jack smears the already messy cruor in his leap towards his father. The Angelus barely notices as his son sniffles and tries to make his wings appear small and flat against his back.

“I leached his Jewel, father,” Jack says in the crook of Castiel’s neck, muffled by the down and his shirt. “I don’t know if he’s going to wake up.”

Castiel tightens his wings around the fledgling and rubs his cheek against his brown hair, his hands smoothing the child’s white feathers, spotless despite the red massacre around them. “I woke up, didn’t I? Prince Winchester seems like the sturdy sort.”

“There were so many,” Jack murmurs, trembling, his wings an agitated mess.

“It’s done,” Castiel croons before turning to the sleeping Warlord Prince. “Come, we must bring Prince Winchester home.”

Castiel fashions a makeshift sling. It would help with carrying the Prince’s dead weight. Jack hovers beside him as Castiel flies Dean towards the eyrie. Raphael meets him at the gates. Although the shielding around the communal eyrie shouldn’t give Castiel any trouble, he waits until he is given entrance. He didn’t think he could break through the double Sapphire shields without wasting much-needed strength and time.

Lord Ezekiel and Prince Samandiriel, two of the Blood males who train with Dean, relieve Castiel of his burden. Raphael grimaces at Castiel, he has the unsavory task of punishing a slave that ignored a call to arms. Especially one who, as a Sapphire and a Warlord Prince, is one of the darkest Jewels in the eyrie.

“The Jhinka are dead,” Castiel announces to the guards in attendance. “Prince Winchester was able to subdue them.”

Whispered disbelief starts with the males around Castiel, the noise growing as the news travels. The Jhinka is a relentless horde, and their raiding parties, though without Jewels, could give a single fighter trouble. It’s why the priority had been to secure the compound first and look for survivors later. Jhinka could hold a siege waiting for all their Jewels to run out of strength.

Raphael has the pinched look of someone who’d swallowed bitterroot. But he looks towards Prince Winchester with grudging respect. Anyone who takes down Jhinka single-handedly deserves it. The matter of Castiel needing proper discipline hangs in the air. Raphael is relieved of his decision when Lady Michaela approaches them from the communal eyrie. 

Jack shuffles and alights in front of Castiel. His wings are splayed open, trying to hide the larger Angelus. “We brought Prince Winchester home, Lady.”

Dean is exhausted and in the restorative sleep to regain his Jewel strength. Lady Michaela flicks her hands in dismissal for Prince Winchester to go to the Healers then focuses on her nephew. 

Jack has blood smudged on the front of his clothes, courtesy of Castiel. Castiel, who’d broken through a bloody shield, is the messiest of the three, despite arriving after the slaughter.

Michaela sweeps her eyes over the entire mess. “So I see.” She gets a far-away look in her eyes of one who was communicating distaff to distaff thread before she refocused on the child. “He should be able to be up and about in a few days. The Green Jewel has not drained, the Healer tells me.”

Jack looks away, and Michaela takes the chance to look at Castiel. “And you, Ignoring orders and touching another one of my males again, Castiel?”

“Jack was missing. I thought it prudent to return with both rather than leave them for the cold. The vultures are circling already,” Castiel responds.

Michaela looks towards the skies and spots the opportunistic feeders. She presses her lips together. “I suppose it’s archaic for a slave to be forbidden to touch a Prince in my service. And he saved us from such a massive attack with only the power of his Jewels.”

Castiel is still. Michaela’s comments on the punishment don’t mean that it would go away. 

“Lucian has been monopolizing your time that she’s been neglecting my nephew. The Prince, on the other hand, saved us. The best course of action is for you to thank Prince Winchester by servicing him for the rest of Lady Lucian’s stay.”

Jack’s wings are relieved of tension, and they lay flat on his side. Castiel didn’t understand how Jack could be so complacent. But then, the child didn’t yet realize what servicing meant. Castiel bows to Michaela in acknowledgment. She dismisses him with a wave, and he goes to where they took the Prince to heal.

Being Dean’s nursemaid in the sick room is easy. While the Healers puzzle over Dean’s condition, Castiel mops Dean’s sweat and cleans his body, Hannah passes by to cheer him up.

Balthazar also comes to complain and tell him that he’s taken Castiel’s place in attending Lucian. She attends the theater, dancing, and shopping as she is wont to do. It is almost Winsol, and the preparations for Jack’s Birthright Ceremony keep her occupied. It is said in good nature and Castiel just makes a face.

The eyrie goes on as usual, though Castiel misses Jack since the nestling isn’t allowed in the sick room. It is quiet. The Healers ignore Castiel, and Castiel ignores them. 

Even without Lucian, there is enough work to keep Castiel busy. Force-feeding Dean has been difficult, but manageable.

While cleaning Dean’s body, Castiel holds Dean’s hands and reaches with his mind. He finds the inner barriers, the shields that protect the Blood from psychic attacks, intact. Dean is not vulnerable to the world. Even his first barrier, which protected everyday thoughts, is solid. His inner barrier, the core of his self and inner web should be unharmed as well.

Thankful that Jack hadn’t harmed the inner web, Castiel carefully extracts himself from Dean’s mind, not attempting to delve through thoughts where he isn’t invited.

Since Dean did not walk the Twisted Kingdom, all that Castiel could do is care for him and wait for his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776)   
> 


	11. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Healer** —a witch who heals physical wounds and illnesses; equal in status to a Priestess and a Prince
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Dean wakes up with a startled gasp and abrupt movements, shoving his blanket off of himself and abruptly sitting upright. He takes in his surroundings with one sweep of the room, bare-bones empty cots, a table with herbs, and a washstand. Dean feels the dark power and heady psychic scent of a Warlord Prince and the banked heat of their caste before his eyes land on Castiel. 

The Angelus is sitting on the bed where he’d been convalescing. Despite the rival Warlord Prince, his instincts don’t rise to the killing edge, labeling Cas as one of the safe males in the Territories.

“Has anybody ever told you that watching people while they sleep is kinda disturbing?” Is the first thing Dean says, his voice deep from disuse. He desperately wants water, a meal, and a bath, but there’s no food in the room. Instead of the savory meats, the potent scent of healing herbs is everywhere. Dean’s never liked the sick room.

Standing up and using his wings for balance, Castiel gives the Prince a once over. “Lady Michaela has sent me to watch over you.”

Dean groans as he leans over the bed sluggishly, his muscles weak from however long he’s been sleeping. He taps into his Red and is satisfied when it gives a deep glow of power, it’s not yet fully charged, but it’s on its way there. The Green winks from his pendant. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“You should stop losing consciousness then,” Castiel suggests, but doesn’t reach out to help Dean. The slave is still wary of Dean as a Warlord Prince. 

It puzzles Dean since he’s never shown anything untoward for the slave and has even been very accommodating of Jack. Besides, Castiel is a Warlord Prince himself, even if he’s chained by the Ring of Obedience.

_Jack!_ Dean thought, remembering why he passed out. He looks around, frantic. Logically, he knows that Jack would have also been brought in at the same time Dean was, it was unsettling that the boy wasn’t in the same sick room as Dean. “Where’s Jack? Is he all right?”

Castiel looks at Dean’s distraught searching and believes the desperation. “Peace, Prince. You saved him.”

Thankful, Dean sits wearily on his bed, running his hand over his face. The month weighs heavily on him. Not just the Jhinka attack, but the search for the Prince of Light and the training with the guard to become a Third Circle male. 

“It was more like he saved me. I can’t even remember what happened,” Dean pauses to search his memory, recalling the descent for power at least. He didn’t know how they survived. “I was just diving for the webs, and then there was blood and guts everywhere.”

That admission startles movement from Castiel as he kneels in front of Dean. His big wings are folded behind his back, but their shadows fall on his face. Castiel positions himself so that Dean would look down on him instead of gazing up, putting Dean in a position of power despite being weak as a newborn babe. “I assure you, Prince. You saved Jack.”

Dean brings his hand down slowly before looking Castiel in the eye. They stare at each other for a few seconds, weighing one another. Whatever warning Castiel is trying to send is strong enough for Dean to heed the suggestion in that statement. He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Castiel before he says, “What did I say? Call me Dean, Cas.”

Castiel snorts, breaking eye contact, his wings flapping once in agitation. “It’s most impertinent for a pleasure slave to be so familiar with a Warlord Prince. Especially one that’s most assuredly going to be in Lady Michaela’s Third Circle.”

Reaching out to clasp Castiel’s shoulder causes the black wings to widen slightly before it does a sharp flick in the air and settles. Ignoring the warning being projected by the wings, Dean squeezes and tries to go for reassurance but hitting awkward and weak instead before letting go. “You’re also my friend. Friends are less formal. Besides, saving my ass twice kinda gives you the right to use my name, you know.”

Castiel’s wings lift for balance minutely while he stands. Clearly, he thinks the suggestion is absurd but doesn't protest. “I should get you your meal,” Castiel says, evading further talk with the Warlord Prince. “I’ll be your personal servant from now until you’re recovered. Call me for anything that you need.”

Castiel accompanies Dean as he eats. From Castiel, Dean learns that three days have passed since the Jhinka attack.

When asked what they’ve been doing in the meantime, Castiel waves vaguely. Castiel reminds Dean of the Healer’s instructions and healing brews. Dean grimaces at all the restrictions but he takes it as an opportunity. He finally has a chance to go to places with Castiel that he hadn’t been able to access without wings.

Dean asks to be brought around the other compounds, Castiel complies with little fuss. He accompanies Dean to a low and unoccupied balcony that most of the eyries in Michaela’s stronghold have and instructs Dean, “Place your arms around my neck.”

Dean blinks and steps back while Castiel’s wings unfurl to their full length. Castiel squints at him, there’s a twinkle of amusement there, even if there’s a touch of irritation. “You could either help me carry you or go over my shoulder. I assure you the view is more pleasant with the first option.”

“Why Cas, you have a nicely proportioned ass. Don’t say that,” Dean teases as he moves backward from the now very intimidating wingspan of the Angelus. The balcony is roomy enough that at the full spread, the wings don’t touch anything on either side.

Castiel rolls his eyes, flaps his wings twice before rising, and plucking Dean off the balcony. Dean lets out an involuntary shriek that he will never admit to. The sudden height causes Dean to scrabble against Castiel’s back and try to grip _anything._ He stops looking at the balcony they’d just left, the distance darkens the edges of his vision. Unfortunately, the only other thing to focus on was Castiel. The world tilts as the Angelus’ powerful wings bring them aloft. Dean’s stomach dropping with each powerful thrust. 

“Stop clawing my back,” Castiel admonishes Dean. The Angelus had followed through on his promise and slung Dean across both his shoulders so that his head wouldn’t be dangling between Castiel’s wings. “My hold is secure. I’ll land at one of the other eyries soon.”

Dean’s stomach lurches as the yawning chasms of the mountains greets him, partially obscured every time Castiel’s wings beat to fly. “Easy for you to say. If you drop me, I don’t have wings. I’m in a muscled death trap! I wasn’t meant to _fly.”_

Castiel slaps Dean’s ass, resulting in Dean’s undignified squawk. “Stop complaining. How in the Three Realms did you reach me for a healing? Jack certainly can’t carry you in this snow.”

“Jack asked Hannah to carry me, and it was dark!” Dean exclaims, his eyes darting from the treetops to the sky. It did not help with the sudden churning in his stomach. “And she used a soothing spell.”

“That would be Hannah’s way,” Castiel murmurs, his wings shifting from the rhythmic beating to a smooth glide down. Dean doesn’t know if that is better or worse. “Why didn’t Jack send Hannah then?”

“Because he said his mother would just beat her, and I as a Third Circle male carried some kind of protection.” 

Dean gives another series of protests coupled with undignified squawks at the fact that the ground is rapidly approaching his head. His stomach has settled into becoming a rock. It’s still roiling and threatening to lose its contents at any moment. By the time the Angelus lands, Dean is ready to kiss the ground as he slides bonelessly from Castiel’s shoulders. 

Castiel has the exasperated look of one who is losing patience. He crosses his arms as Dean takes his first unsteady steps. “You do realize that we have to fly back?”

“I know,” Dean mutters.

“There are no landing webs here other than the one at the communal eyrie. Mount Ararat doesn’t have the radial webs,” Castiel, the asshole, explains as he fans his wings to clear the snow.

“ _I know,_ ” Dean answers, gritting his teeth. He’s still not able to find Michaela or Lucian’s quarters, but having Castiel escort him around was helpful in the mountains.

When they finish exploring, Dean attempts exercises in the training circle. Castiel helps him with the gentle exercises that the Healers suggest he start while his muscles are getting used to being awake. While Dean isn’t as exhausted as when he first came to Mount Ararat, his muscles are weak from disuse. Castiel stops him from doing more than an hour of running and sword forms.

Content with Dean's physical well-being, Castiel flies him to the pools. The Eryien pools are decadent and deep enough to contain Eryiens with their massive wings. In the mountains, it relieves the chill, and Castiel prepared one that is warmed and steeped with healing salts.

Dean soaks until he feels all of his knotted muscles loosen. The tendrils of heat are unleashed from his skin, and his psychic scent drenches the room. Castiel’s own psychic scent and heat mingle with his.

Castiel fishes him out of the pool and wraps him perfunctorily in a heated bath cloth before depositing him face-first in a round stone slab off the side. There is natural light coming from above it, perfect for sunning, and the stones are warm to the touch. It is surprisingly comfortable despite the lack of a mattress, and Dean lies prone, his back to the sun. 

Dean startles with the feel of Castiel’s hands on his shoulders, his hands slick with oil, smelling of coconut. He attempts to stand, but Castiel’s hands are firm in holding him down. 

“You’ve been out of commission for three days and now have been trying to exercise your way to get into the Third Circle training again,” Castiel reminds him while kneading through the muscles. “This will help you do more tomorrow.”

Castiel massages the oil onto Dean’s back with slow hard circles. Undeniably, Castiel knows what he’s doing and what minor pains the water and herbs couldn’t take away. By the time Castiel finishes his entire back, Dean is so languid and boneless, he didn’t even want to turn for Castiel to do his front. He does so with a bit of urging but is embarrassed to reveal that his cock is stirring.

Not commenting, Castiel starts the massage with Dean’s feet. His fingers dig into the soles, sensually stroking his legs, and the insides of his thighs, with slender oiled fingers. He ignores Dean’s predicament, working on his stomach pointedly, which did not help with the situation. When Castiel presses both thumbs on the jut of Dean’s hips, Dean lets out an utterly sinful and unbidden groan. It prompts him to bite his lip and turn his head away.

Dean would have continued ignoring the heaviness between his legs had Castiel’s mouth not engulfed it. The sudden, inviting heat spurs Dean into action, quickly pushing and scrambling away from Castiel. 

“What in the name of Darkness are you doing?” By the time Dean back hits a wall, he realizes he has several very discreet seduction spells wrapped around him, licking around his mental barriers.

Castiel wipes the side of his slick lips with his thumb. “A mediocre attempt to suck your prick, it seems, since you’re still coherent and trying to reject me.”

Dean attempts to retort several times before realizing that his brains are probably as scrambled as his balls right now and settled for gaping at the Angelus. On his fourth attempt at words, he says, “I think you’re great and all. But I think maybe we both have a different idea of what we should be doing here.”

“There is only one reason Lady Michaela would gift me to anyone,” Castiel responds, not moving. “So maybe it’s you who has the misconception.”

Dean finds that his mouth is still moving with no sound and promptly shuts it.

“You haven’t forgotten I’m a pleasure slave, have you?” Castiel asks exasperated, his arms crossing. “Light take it, to be given to the only Male this side of Askavi who has an aversion to sex.” 

“What?”

“It’s a night in the sheets, Prince. What does it matter to you if it’s because of a slave? You haven’t had entertainment since you began training. You could do worse than me.”

Maybe in Terreille but not in Kaeleer. In Kaeleer, if a Blood male wants to serve in a Queen’s First Circle someday, he would have to preserve his honor and respectability. Otherwise, he’s left to serve in the meanest types of court, like those found in Terreille. Besides, Dean isn’t ambitious enough for First Circle, despite his Jewels being dark enough for it.

Swallowing, Dean shakes his head. “I’m good. I’m good.” He wraps himself up with the robe that is helpfully provided to the side of the stone slab before marching out of the bathing chambers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow with breakfast then, Prince!” Castiel calls out.

Muttering all the way to his room, Dean glowers at any guard who even raises an eyebrow at him. He doesn’t bother with clothes and drops exhausted to fall asleep.


	12. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Warlord** —a Jeweled male equal in status to a witch
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

One good thing about his recuperation is that Dean moves around the communal eyrie unchecked. He could map more rooms and check multiple gardens despite the snow. He finds a sizable hollowed-out ground with a raised dais. It’s where Lady Michaela performs the sacred rituals the Blood observes every month.

In another walk through the perimeter, Dean finds a discreet walled-off alcove. At the center of the semi-circular section is a statue of an angel. Around its base, several flowering plants are blooming red despite the season. The garden has an unsettling feel to it, unwelcoming even if it’s picturesque. It hasn’t been cleaned since the last snowfall, although there are footprints on the ground.

“Witchblood.”

Dean swivels around to find Jack hovering around the low archway of vines that had sheltered the entrance. Jack steps out from behind the vines, his wings flap to brush off the light dusting of snow that had weighed on them.

“Jack!” Dean grins happily, scooping the child up and twirling him. The boy spreads his wings wide in a parody of flying while Dean turns in circles. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while!”

“Mother has been busy planning for the Birthright Ceremony. Fittings, going to town. She’s been very put out that Aunt Michaela has given Castiel to you for the time being,” Jack answers as Dean puts him down gently in the snow.

Age is hard to figure out for the long-lived races. They have long rapid growth followed by plateaus, and it’s difficult, especially for Dean, who isn’t Eryien or from a long-lived race, to guess. Jack is young enough not to have his Birthright Ceremony but old enough to have a basic knowledge of Craft.

“Birthright Ceremony, huh?” Dean asks his mind whirling. That could be their ticket out of here. With a District Queen’s son, the ceremony should be grand with plenty of guests. It’d be easier to slip away amid all the confusion. “When’s the big day?”

“Winsol.”

Dean nods. “Is there a Sanctuary near here for that? This place would be good for it.”

Jack kneels down on the snow, cupping the blood-red perennial flowers. They smell like a mix of plumerias and lilies. “Castiel said Mother requested Aunt Michaela to send for the statue when I was born.”

“The lady must really love you,” Dean says, appreciating the artwork. It’s cut from solid marble, its wings flared up and offered to the skies.

Jack cocks his head to the side and flies up to land on one of the sculpture’s arms. They are raised, mimicking the wings as if waiting for something to fall from above. “Mother put this up as a reminder to Castiel, not because of her love for me.” 

Jack swings his legs as he imitates the wings thrown up, and the arms held high.

Dean doesn’t understand, and Jack holds the pose until he finally sees it. The arms are fending off an attack, kneeling after a blow. The head, which Dean didn’t notice because of the wings, is angled down. 

It isn’t a picture of adoration, it was one of subjugation. Jack brings his wings around himself before looking at Dean. He slides from the arm to the ground gracefully, his wings helping him balance once he lands. 

“Do you know?” Jack asks quietly, his white wings settling around him like a heavy cloak from the snow, the witchblood framing him in blood red contrast. “Witchblood only grows where a witch has been killed violently. Didn’t you have witchblood in your previous court, Prince?”

Dean stands back in horror and reexamines the altar, stunned. Hundreds of the flowers circle the statue. Hundreds of horrible deaths in this alcove in the middle of nowhere. No wonder the psychic scent here is dark and unwelcoming. No wonder Lady Michaela has an arch shielding it from view, its place far enough from the house so its psychic scent couldn’t reach it.

Jack trills then sings a song of sorrow in the old tongue. When the song is over, he reaches for Dean’s hands. “Jaenelle taught me that song. I sing it when my father is sent away for punishment. This is where they chain him, you know.”

For the first time, Dean notices a bench behind the statue, also covered in inches of snow. Jack flaps his wings and sends a bit of Craft to help it along and clear the space. The act reveals chains in the icy cold.

“They chain your father here?” Dean asks, confused. “And your mother allows that?”

“That’s right, you’re not from here, Prince,” Jack says solemnly. “I’m not pure Angelus. I’m an Eryien half-breed, don’t you know?”

Dean hadn’t realized. He’d thought the boy was another Angelus slave bought off the camps.

“My mother is Lady Lucian,” Jack informs him, then he sits on the bench nodding at the sculpture. “And my father is Castiel, although I haven’t had my Birthright Ceremony yet.”

No wonder the boy is protective of the slave. _Mother Night!_

_A raven hooked in a jess with a nestling._ Mary’s words come back to haunt Dean. He thought the raven could be wisdom before, stopping the flow of the surge of power.

Dean turns to Jack abruptly. “How long has your father been serving this court, Jack?”

“Hundreds of years,” Jack answers with a shrug. 

Dean almost sighs in disappointment. Rowena told John that the Prince of Light hadn’t been in place before. It couldn’t be Cas if he’s been here before the twelve-year mark. 

“Aunt Michaela loaned him out from court to court, so there are decades that he wasn’t here. She put an end to that when I was born. She wants Castiel to give her children not the other courts,” Jack adds.

Cas has been _away._ Hope thrums in Dean’s unsteady heart. “And how old are you, Jack?”

Jack blinks. “I’m almost seven.”

“And before you were born, Cas was never here?”

Jack tips his head in thought. “Not for two decades at least. He said he spent that time on a rotation with the coven. He told me he was very thankful when I came because he finally stopped roaming.”

The pounding of Dean’s heart drowns Jack’s chatter.

 _The Prince wasn’t in place,_ Rowena told his dad. If his dad had been focusing on courts, he would have missed a slave in rotation. Especially if the slave was on loan with the witches and wasn’t brought to court. 

Dean is suddenly sure that Castiel is the Prince of Light, and he needs him out of Terreille’s influence before it’s too late.

Prince Winchester disappeared after dinner. By the time he returns, he looks like he’s death warmed over. Castiel rolls his eyes when Dean protests the fussing and makes quick work of his clothes. 

The Angelus bundles Dean up in what he has jokingly referred to as his deadman’s robes. It received its nickname due to the fact that the Prince wore it while he was mostly dead from Jack’s leaching. 

The fire was stoked earlier while Castiel was waiting for Dean. The room smells faintly of pine cones he mixed in with the hearth. It gives the room the fresh woodsy aroma and dispels some of the heavy psychic scents clinging on the walls. A Warlord Prince considers his room his territory, and Castiel is careful with these changes. He doesn’t want Dean marking him as an enemy.

Dean doesn’t comment, just glares at Castiel as Castiel shoves him a mug of a mulled cider. He pushes it away in distaste before settling in his temporary bed. “I don’t like boiled grass.”

“It’s not tea,” Castiel corrects him and pushes the warm drink back, stirring the cinnamon stick once around before removing it. “It’ll warm you after whatever fool errand you had, going out at this hour.”

Still skeptical, the Prince eyes the drink with distaste but takes a tentative sip. Dean pauses, inhales the warm scent of lemon, honey, and cinnamon blended with the malt. He takes a long swallow from the drink before he concedes with, “It’s not bad.”

It’s good that Castiel scaled back on the honey then. The things that one learns while serving. Castiel sits on the bed and patiently waits for the mug while Dean talks about his day, his outing with Jack earlier after the usual training with Eryiens, and visit at the Healers. 

Dean is content to ramble and even coaxes stories from Castiel about his time with Jack. He does it despite finishing the cider and is relaxed deep in the bed’s comfort. It isn’t as large as the ones in Lucian’s room, but it was built to hold an Eryien and his wings. It easily swallows Dean in its vastness, even with Castiel’s wing half on the sheets on top of the blankets.

Seated uninvited on Dean’s bed, Castiel gets to know the Warlord Prince. Dean is shy about anything concerning sexual pleasure. Castiel’s multiple overtures are met with ready and deliberate evasion. Dean’s unaccustomed to being served, and even in Castiel’s capacity as a valet, the Prince protests loudly.

The Prince is not used to luxuries and savors the soft mattress and the down bed. He is surprised when Castiel tucks lavender and lemon balm into the linen after a warming spell for his comfort. There is an innocence to him. Maybe it’s because Castiel is more than 700 years his senior or because Castiel is a pleasure slave but Castiel wishes that the Prince’s time in Michaela’s court would not tarnish it.

“Want me to read to you?” Castiel asks as he calls in a book from the shared library. Michaela isn’t one for old tomes, not like the aristos of Hayll. She’s an Eryien and values fighting more than she does words, but despite the small selection, there is a library. The book Castiel chose is filled with prurient material. As with most books of the class, it is unobtrusive and simply bound in unadorned leather. “I have a pleasant reading voice, I’m told.”

Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel in suspicion, but Castiel maintains a serene smile. Dean shakes his head in dismissal. “Not really my favorite pastime, ya know. More my brother’s. I wasn’t built for that type of—”

Castiel’s fingers on his lips silence that train of thought instantly. The book he discarded on the night table. “None of that. No pity parties and no self-deprecating words between us.” Castiel trails his fingers down Dean’s chin, following its curve to the dip of his neck, then rubs lazy circles down his chest.

Dean grabs the offending wrist and stills it, but he doesn’t push away. “If you’re going for comfort, that’s not exactly what’s happening here.”

“Isn’t it?” Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side, holding Dean’s gaze a touch longer than appropriate. “Then tell me, Prince, what is happening?”

“I—you…”

Castiel smiles, a slight upturn of the lips as he leans forward, his breath mingling with Dean’s. “Am I not to your taste? I could arrange for a female to service you, Prince. You do have needs.”

“No!” Dean sinks further into the pillows, the down eating him as he gurgles in protest.

“No, I’m not to your taste?” Castiel asks, deliberately obtuse.

“No, I don’t need a female to service me!” Dean clarifies with a squawk. 

Castiel chuckles but straightens partially, taking pity on the Prince’s caged appearance. 

Dean barrels on, “I mean, why would you _want_ to service me? Isn’t servicing Lucian and Michaela’s court _enough_?”

Terribly naïve, then, not outright repulsion. Castiel could work with that. He crowds Dean on the bed, fitting himself across the Prince’s side as the Prince tries to ignore his presence. “If not you, then I’d be gifted to someone else. I’d be expected to perform, to like things whether or not I do so. Queens in this court revel in pain and suffering all the more because I’ve never enjoyed that.”

Castiel reaches for Dean’s cheek and turns it, so they were facing each other. “I’d rather have you than stay with them.”

Dean stares back, waiting for a breath, a moment that it would clear up for him. The intensity of his eyes changes, before he lowers his lashes down, hiding his thoughts from Castiel before he says, “I want you to have real choices, Cas.”

A Warlord Prince is the highest Blood male castes, almost equal to a Queen, but at this moment, this Prince is vulnerable. The silence that enveloped them expanded, like a heavy weight in the room.

“I think you should sample me,” Castiel advises cheekily. He slides his leg over Dean’s and tucks his knee between the Prince’s thighs. Even through the robe and bed cover, Castiel can feel Dean’s promising, slightly hard cock resting on Castiel's own. Dean chokes on air at the suggestion, and Castiel laughs. “I give excellent kisses. I’m quite an expert at it, I’m told.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably until he hits the headboard. Castiel sighs inwardly. He has miscalculated, he shouldn’t have reminded the Prince that he’s been with others. “A little gift for me, so I’d remember you when you’re gone,” Castiel says instead.

Castiel crawls towards Dean, innocent, and non-threatening. He starts with a small kiss on the corner of Dean’s mouth. When Dean blinks at him and relaxes, Castiel takes the opportunity to climb on Dean’s lap. The Prince takes his weight with a soft barely there grunt. 

As Castiel deepens the next kiss, Dean is unresponsive. He is staring wild-eyed at Castiel, who is nothing if not persistent. He nips at the Prince’s lips, then sucks gently before he pulls back to wait for an answer, worrying his own lip in the process. Just when Castiel is beginning to think he might have misjudged Dean, he sees this fire suddenly come alive in the other man’s eyes.

The Prince kisses _back._ And he is hungry. 

Dean scrabbles at Castiel, pulling several feathers from the base where Castiel’s wings meet his back. Castiel relinquishes to Dean, letting him flip them over. One of his wings is in an uncomfortable angle, but he’s content to lose himself in the moment and grinds against the Prince shamelessly.

Dean ends up straddling Castiel, their mouths joined in desperation. When Castiel moans, Dean startles out of his sudden frenzy. “Do your Queens treat you like this?” He asks, breathing raggedly. He leans his forehead against Castiel’s.

“Nobody treats me like you do,” Castiel answers, exhilarated.

Dean closes his eyes, then shakes his head. He climbs off Castiel and lays down beside him. Dean took Castiel’s hand. “They should. You’re a person, Cas. No less than they are.” 

Not for the first time, Castiel wonders how Dean became the man he is. He serves, but he doesn’t subjugate. Knowing that Dean couldn’t be persuaded to do more, Castiel leans in for the last time and presses a light touch of his lips on Dean’s cheek. “Good night, Prince. Sweet Dreams.”

John Winchester leans down to tie his shoelaces and moves the loose tile on the inn’s steps. He is expecting the drop to be empty, as it has been for the past month they’ve been living in the town. He’s been in Askavi Terreille before, and he admits that searching for the Prince in this Territory is better than when he tried Hayll.

His breath stutters when his hands come away with a square of white parchment. John pockets the note discreetly before smoothing the brick again. Resisting the temptation to look at it in the open, John walks steadily back to the inn. He nods at the proprietress, a brunette Eryien named Tessa, before ducking into his rooms.

There, he smooths out the parchment with trembling hands.

_Winsol. Birthright Ceremony._

_Sanctuary._

_I’ve found the Light._

John burns the note with a match and watches the ashes fall onto the wooden table. He leans his forehead into his fist and realizes that he’s crying. They will finally put Mary’s prophecy to rest.

Dean has finally found his mother’s mystery.

And finally… Finally, they could go home. 


	13. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Terreille** —the Realm of Light, and the Realm farthest from the Darkness
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Realms of the World_ **

Castiel has learned that though Prince Winchester is most definitely interested, he isn’t going to initiate anything sexual. 

The first time, Castiel brings Dean food after the pre-breakfast training. He boxes him in between the barracks and the kitchens. It’s a secluded narrow alley the slaves use to flit in and out of the houses to carry out chores. Castiel could almost taste the desire on the Warlord Prince’s lips. The potency of his sexual heat boils over into hunger, and the rabbiting pulse is visible on the base of his throat. The Prince thanks him for the meal but eats in the communal eyrie.

In another attempt, Castiel lounges on Dean’s bed, his wings artfully framing his well-toned body. His psychic scent steeps into the sheets. Dean graciously led him out, yet Castiel is sure Dean could not have had peaceful rest with the heady spice of Castiel’s preening oils and psychic scent so thickly pervading the sheets. 

Dean asks one of the serving girls to wash his linens for a few coins the next day. 

In fact, a week passes by with a series of rejected sexual encounters. Castiel enacts increasingly lewd contact with Dean, which Dean rebuffs. Balthazar laughs at Castiel’s frustration wholeheartedly. Hannah simply shakes her head, asking why he’s trying so hard. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Hannah?” Balthazar asks, trailing his fingers against Castiel’s cheek in a mock caress, which Castiel bats away. “Our Cassie doesn’t like anyone resisting his charms. It’s a point of pride with him. It’s a challenge. He may not _enjoy_ servicing them, but a refusal is unheard of.”

“Really, Castiel?” Hanna asks, not understanding, but curious. 

Castiel waves them both away as Hannah gives him a bundle of feathers. She’s grounded now, but she has leftovers sequestered. 

Balthazar’s assessment rings true, and it’s all the more intriguing. Castiel has never been given to someone who’s refused his services. But it is also a welcome break, especially since Jack’s Birthright Ceremony is fast approaching.

During the time that Prince Winchester trains with the other Blood males, Castiel passes his time by gathering feathers. He collected his during past molting seasons. Most of his Angelus friends who know Jack have donated a few of their softest feathers that they hid from their masters during the molt.

He strips the feathers from the vane and puts them in a clear bowl with the down, which he spins and seals inside using Craft. It allowed for the down to separate and fluff, capturing the air. Castiel leaves the feathers spinning while he prepares a silky cloth sack that would contain the down. 

So engrossed is he with the work that he barely notices Prince Winchester until he takes the glass with his feathers in wonder. Dean lifts it in the air watching the down swirl and fall in the glass. “Why are you making a snow globe?”

Castiel stiffens, his eyes widening before he vanishes the pillow he’d been sewing and bows low into the ground. “Pardon, Prince, did you want your bath?” 

Michaela would think up a punishment worse than whipping if she finds out that he’s been keeping a treasure of feathers from her. Castiel should have been more careful, but time was running out fast for Jack’s Birthright Ceremony. He’d rather have the keepsake ready by then. The Prince has been relatively predictable in his training schedule and Castiel thought little of making the pillow while waiting.

“Sure! Where should I place this tho? It’s really cool. I haven’t seen anything like it,” Dean enthuses as he throws the bowl from palm to palm like a small ball. He is deft with his hands and Castiel suspects that Dean knows how to juggle. It doesn’t stop Castiel from darting his eyes towards the globe and twisting a ring that wasn’t there. He goes over the possibility of the glass falling and breaking and doesn’t like the results.

Motioning to the table to distract Dean, Castiel busies himself with the Dean's after training rituals. The Prince is wholly enthralled by the feathers. Castiel knows it would be a problem if Michaela gets wind of the stash. Castiel runs the bath, warming the water while putting in the herbs that the Prince likes. Then he adds medicine to soothe his aches.

Dean doesn’t wait for Castiel to help with disrobing. The Prince steps into the waters with a groan of contentment. It prompts Castiel to vanish the feathers immediately while preparing for Dean's clothes and oils that he would use.

After a few minutes of fussing over nothing, he hears Dean’s soft chuckle. “You’re tightly strung tonight.”

Most probably because Dean caught him with the feathers. Michaela might geld Castiel if she knew that she was robbing him of a veritable fortune of angel feathers to be used for feather-work. “I just misjudged the time you would be returning.”

The sloshing of the water heralds Dean resting his head on his palms as he looks at Castiel from the pools languidly. “Relax a bit, Cas, no one’s out to get you here.”

Castiel stops momentarily at the shortened form of his name. He hasn’t allowed the Prince the liberty to use it. Prince Winchester drops formality easily, and it is not Castiel’s place to protest.

Motioning for Castiel, Dean looked pointedly at the seat beside the pools. Used by attendants of the person bathing, Dean had never asked Castiel to attend him before now. “Stop whatever you’re doing if it’s not too important. Sit down. You’ve earned a break from taking care of me.”

“I’ve actually done nothing but wait for you while you were training—”

“You’re also not allowed to contradict me,” Dean admonishes.

Castiel gives up and sits near the pools. He arranges his wings so they would not get wet and require another preening. 

Dean notices the movement and reaches for the primary flight feathers. Castiel’s muscles lock into place, not knowing what to do, as Dean stretches the wing in curiosity. Dean must have realized this and lets go abruptly.

“Your feathers are very pretty, Cas,” Dean compliments, looking at them in the soft light of the bathing chambers. Castiel’s feathers are deep black and unpatterned, unlike the darkened tips of Balthazar’s silvery wings or Hannah’s spotted ones. But when the light hits them at an angle it has an iridescent blue shine. “That snow globe has some black ones like these. Are you making it as a Winsol gift?”

Castiel hesitates, Dean’s eyes shutter when he notices. It causes Castiel to want to shove his entire wing back onto the Prince’s hands to stave away the disappointment. “It’s a nesting pillow for Jack.”

“Like a mama hen making a nest for her chicks?” Dean says with a grin.

Rubbing his jaw at the picture that Dean painted, Castiel agrees, “I guess it is sort of like that.”

“Where’s your very own snuggle pillow then?” Prince Winchester also has a terrible habit of renaming everything. 

“It’s a nesting pillow,” Castiel corrects him, sighing heavily while minutely shaking his head.

“Yeah, but your Angelus babies snuggle with it. So it’s a snuggle pillow,” Prince Winchester argues with his convoluted logic. 

Castiel should set Balthazar on him and watch them argue with each other in circles.

“I’m not…” Castiel trails off his frown deepening as he tries to parse Dean’s intent. He shifts his weight before pointing out, “Jack’s not a baby.”

“Aww, come on, not the point.” Dean rolls his eyes before he leans in and elbows Castiel playfully. “Say it with me: Snuggle pillow. I know you wanna say it.”

Castiel bites his lips hard against the insistent smile that wants to break out under Dean’s ridiculous antics. 

Dean’s answering laughter is loud and irreverent as he leans back and takes in Castiel. “There it is. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere.”

Clearing his throat from the impropriety, Castiel lights one of the many candles by the poolside with Craft. The aromatic scent of sandalwood fills the air. Castiel reaches for Dean and tries to scrub his back, but Dean waves him off. Instead, he tries to hold Castiel motionless with one hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel fidgets uncomfortably and rearranges himself under the scrutiny. Dean squeezes his shoulder firmly. 

“Hey, how long am I supposed to steep in these stinky herbs?” Dean asks with his thumb tracing the curve of Castiel’s collarbone.

“The Healer’s instructions were an hour,” Castiel’s voice breaks as he reminds Dean, conscious of his wandering touch.

Dean regards Castiel under his eyelashes, suddenly serious. His hand lingers on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel feels the pads of Dean’s fingers acutely. “Think you could stop moving for an hour?”

Something settles inside of Castiel. Yes, he could do as Dean asked. There is something in Dean that speaks to Castiel of safety, telling him that staying still is allowed. Following him is not a chore. The parts of him that he didn’t know were restless falls quiet into the spaces that he didn’t know existed. 

Wordlessly, Castiel disrobes and dips into the pool beside Dean, and pauses, waiting for orders. Dean gently guides him to the rim of the stone pool, and Castiel’s breathing slows. While Michaela and Lucien own his leash, he’s been granted this reprieve, and though he'd dreaded it, he’s come to learn to look forward to Dean’s natural charm. The lack of orders sets him adrift. He’d never had someone expect absolutely nothing from him. Least of all his obedience.

Dean strokes Castiel’s shoulder to the base of his wing, and Castiel jerks in surprise. Other than Lucian and Michaela, no one has dared touch Castiel’s wings for fear of Michaela’s wrath. Dean either has no sense or doesn’t know about the mandate. The Prince trails his fingers along the marginal coverts soothingly, and Castiel relaxes.

“Your feathers are so soft, Cas,” Dean murmurs as he casts a warm and gentle soothing spell. This petting is better than Lucian’s kind attention. Lucian has a vested interest in grooming him, and Michaela wants his feathers for more feather-work Craft.

There are no sounds in the bath except the steady melodic drip of the bathwater and their quiet breathing. Dean cards through Castiel’s feathers almost absently, and he leans into the touch. The sexual tension between them is a constant, deep-seated hum. It burns under Castiel’s skin, banks when they part, and scorches when they meet again.

The careful and gentle strokes are comforting, like grooming. Castiel’s wings droop with every pass of Dean’s palm. His shoulders loosen, and his head sags to fully cradle unto the pool’s lip.

Castiel drifts in the endless abyss, retreating into his inner webs.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean’s voice is soft and coming from a distance. It takes a couple of tries before Castiel resurfaces. Dean has turned in the pool, his head resting on his folded arms, nose almost touching Castiel’s. “There you are.”

Castiel blinks slowly, the languorous pull of the moment having affected both his muscles and his thoughts. He is fuzzy, floating in space. It’s like when he glides in the air, takes an updraft, then folds his wings to fall. “Sorry. Was I asleep?”

“No, but you were very, very far away,” Dean says with a fond smile.

Embarrassed, Castiel sits up, splashing the waters. He stretches his limbs, which feel like overcooked noodles. He glances at the candles and starts when he sees that they have melted into stubs. “Let’s get you your massage then,” Castiel says to distract himself from the thick tension.

“You might want to wipe your wing down first, Cas,” Dean says, not moving.

Castiel furrows his brows and flaps his wings several times before he realizes that his wings are so wet that his skin is warm and slippery from oil. When Castiel stretches awkwardly to touch his preening glands, his fingers come away with the thick oil, thicker than he’s used to. He grimaces and gives Dean an accusatory glare before he calls in a soft cloth and attempts to mop it up.

“I didn’t realize you made that much of the wing oil.”

“Not outside salacious theatrical plays, no,” Castiel retorts. He’s half-hard and has been since he languished in the pool, he realizes. Castiel is bursting out of his skin. He needs contact, but he’s well-versed in ignoring his needs, letting the sexual heat wash over both of them instead. He’s trying to wipe the excess in abrupt jerking motions, failing to reach the glands that are too high on his back.

Dean must have seen how upset Castiel was because Dean takes the bath cloth from him and starts wiping him down. “Well, welcome to my life of bawdy music and ever bawdier circumstances.”

Castiel calms, Dean’s careful attention is more intimate than the touches on his wings. While the feathers didn’t have sensations, the thin, sensitive skin under them is a different matter. Castiel shudders and Dean pauses, hesitant, before continuing. His movements become insistent and deliberate, with long, hard strokes interspersed with soft licks of the cloth.

Castiel turns and cages Dean within the circle of his wings. He examines the Prince: the freckles dotting the arch of his cheek, the almost feminine lashes framing bright green eyes, the rapid irregular pulse on his throat.

Dean doesn’t move away. His deep, ragged breaths mingle with Castiel’s. It mixes with the musk of Castiel’s oil, which soaked through the fabric in Dean’s hand. He can smell the herbs on Dean’s skin, the candles, and their psychic scents. The Prince’s lips are parted in involuntary desire, and Castiel is struck with the urge to kiss him.

Castiel leans close and brushes his lips against Dean’s. Then he waits expectantly. 

With a groan, Dean gives in. Castiel swallows Dean’s soft noises as he licks into the Prince’s mouth and demands more, slotting his thigh against Dean’s. He tastes like spring that is always far off in the wintry mountains. Dean’s hands find purchase in Castiel’s hip bones, and Castiel is certain he’ll come upon fingertip-shaped bruises in the morning. 

Dean attacks Castiel’s mouth with insistent kisses—he fights, nips, bites, and claws his way to dominate. But Castiel is an old hand with these types of play, and he’s had more vicious partners. He wants to lead. He _has_ to lead. He slams Dean into the nearest wall, and he shoves his tongue into the Prince's mouth, sucking and licking into him. 

By the time they both come up for air, panting for breath and dizzy with exhilaration, Castiel is painfully hard. He surveys his handiwork: heavy-lidded eyes, dark with want, a heaving, glistening chest in the candlelight. Castiel’s eyes trail downward, and he sees Dean’s engorged cock. The Prince is beautiful and vulnerable at the same time.

Castiel experiences something he has never experienced when servicing someone else: regret. This Prince may want him now, but he’s never consented to more than sharing heat between the two of them. Is this how males in Terreille spiral down to force those weaker than themselves? So they could feel stronger over others when they are helpless themselves?

“Do you still not want me in your bed, Prince?” Castiel asks between breaths.

“I—It’s not...” 

Maybe the Prince doesn’t like males as bedmates, or maybe he is repulsed by pleasure slaves, but Castiel is sure that Dean Winchester _wants_. He just doesn’t _take_. Castiel steps back, his wings releasing the Prince. Dean’s arms are still clutched on his back, and he lets go as if burned. It gives them breathing space but not much else. “Then I suggest we retire for the night and talk no more of it.”

The green of the Prince’s eyes meets Castiel’s blue. They hold for a moment, for an eternity, before Dean looks away. “I’m going away after Winsol, Cas. I’m leaving after Jack’s Birthright Ceremony.”

That isn’t what Castiel was expecting. Castiel feels disoriented and displaced. It’s as if they were in two different conversations.

“Come with me, Cas,” Dean implores, one hand reaching out, barely touching Castiel. “I’m sure we could tear away the Ring of Obedience.”

Castiel laughs derisively. Dean says that because he doesn’t know the agonizing pain when it’s activated. It leaves him incapacitated. Not to mention the seeking spells in it. His owners will find him no matter where in Terreille he runs. “Even the Black hasn’t broken the Ring of Obedience.”

“I’ll work on something,” Dean promises. This time, Dean tentatively touches Castiel’s arm briefly.

To leave Michaela’s service and to break his leash? It’s a dream. Castiel would only suffer worse once Michaela retrieves him. He is far too valuable to set free. He might have been tempted when he was younger despite the pain, but circumstances are different now. “Even then, I won’t leave Jack.”

“Then we’ll take him with us.” Dean slams his palm on his chest for emphasis.

“Jack is going to get a Jewel, Dean.” Emotion chokes the words. Castiel is partly terrified, partly proud, but wholly determined. Castiel would die before Lucian uses or even rings Jack. Even without a Jewel strength, any Blood child is a precious commodity among them. And with his unique ability? “Lucian will never give him to me.”

“All the more reason to get him out of Terreille!” Dean practically shouts, his neck muscles corded with the effort.

Get out of Terreille? “To _where?_ ”

“Kaeleer!”

Castiel snorts at the answer leaving the pool by heaving himself up with his forearms, his wings counterbalancing the movements. Dean follows suit but paces in agitation.

“The Shadow Realm is a myth,” Castiel says, watching Dean’s increasingly frustrated muttering.

Dean rounds on Castiel again and takes both of his arms. Castiel’s wings instinctively snap out in defense, warding off the other Warlord Prince.

“It’s not!” When Castiel shrugs out of Dean’s hold, Dean repeats calmly, “it’s not. I’ve been to Kaeleer, Cas. And Queens there are not so bad. There are Queens there that you’ll be proud to serve under.”

When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean sighs, defeated.

“Think about it, Cas,” Dean says as he shrugs on a gray robe and leaves the bathhouse and Castiel to his thoughts. 

Dean slowly regains his strength as his Jewel fills. He runs around the practice ring and goes on the roster, but taking on a whole slew of Jhinka has earned him the respect of the Eyriens. They’ve given time for a full recovery. 

One of Dean’s favorite duties is caring for the meager stable just outside the Main Courtyard. Eyriens rarely use horses because they prefer flying, and the Coach rides the winds. The mountains are also poor pasture grounds, but Michaela had a stable for the human visitors or the odd chance that they needed someone to ride through the forest lands.

Working with the horses is soothing, which made Dean miss his black warmblood back home. His father had been gifted that horse’s sire some time ago. When they’d settled in one of the Kaeleer cities, their neighbors offered John to breed the horse. 

Dean had taken one look at the foal that the Harvelles had produced and fallen in love. When his father saw Dean on top of the black mare, he’d smiled fondly and promised it to him when they could afford it. She’d had another name before, but Dean refused to call her anything other than Baby.

Dean knows something about horses, probably would have been a stable hand if he isn’t a Warlord Prince. He is often with them when he isn’t expected anywhere. Today, Alfie is along with him. He’s mucking out the stables with a pitchfork while Dean gives the horses grain. 

“What earned you the punishment, Alfie?” Dean asks while he pats Dancing Star, the horse he is tending. Her clean sweat mixed with hay is nostalgic and reminds him of home.

Alfie winces as he pops out his shoulder. He shakes his head. “You think this is punishment? If only. I’m starting to think whipping and blatant misuse of Protocol is the norm and not the exception.”

Serve and Obey are the two rules in Blood Protocol that are most prevalent in Terreillian courts. They’ve forgotten that the first rule has always been Honor, Cherish, and Protect. A Queen protects her males, and by doing so, she earns their service and obedience. It’s the intricate dance that’s long been stilted in Terreille. Dean makes a noncommittal sound watching Alfie. 

Dean liked the blond who is searching for a worthy court to serve. Naïve but determined, the Prince does well during practice and doesn’t complain when given orders. He doesn’t have a mean streak either and does well with Jack whenever he’s watching the child.

Alfie wipes away a smear of dirt on his cheek. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to find a place that suits.” He sighs and returns to cleaning the stalls for the horses while Dean checks if Star Dancer has any wounds. 

Once satisfied, Dean runs his hand through her flank and down her leg to let her know he was going to pick up her hoof to clean it. Dean works slowly with a hoof pick through the snow pad and the horseshoe in companionable silence. Regretfully, he doesn’t think it’d be wise to bring Alfie along with him to Kaeleer. The fewer numbers they have when they leave, the less conspicuous they would be. And he’d already sent another note to his dad telling him that Cas wouldn’t come without Jack. 

By the time Dean finishes with the hooves, Alfie moves to clean the horse trough. He’s looking at Dean intermittently when he thinks Dean isn’t looking, worries his bottom lip by biting it.

“So what d’you want?” Dean asks, inclining his head.

There was a moment of indecision before Alfie squares his shoulders and stands. “It’s about Castiel. What happened to him?”

Hasn’t Castiel been seen around court? Dean recalls most of the past week and realizes that Castiel hasn’t left the rooms Michaela bequeathed Dean for the healing much. Since the room is more private than the barracks where they are usually housed, its sole slave has been out of sight.

“He’s mostly been bringing me food and cleans the rooms,” Dean says mildly as he brushes Star Dancer.

Alfie smiles softly. “Prince Schyreleah saved me when I was a fledgling, you know.”

It’s the first time a family name has been mentioned to Dean. No one has acknowledged the Blood title before either, even if Castiel’s caste is obvious to anyone who can detect psychic scents.

“Eryiens in the camp, we all learn to fight with the sticks, but Craft isn’t a priority even if we use it to fly. It’s more instinct than it is in Hayll.” Dean is unsure how the Eryien hunting camps get formal Craft lessons. In Hayll, his father told him it’s easier for an aristo because of private tutors. In Kaeleer they teach Craft in schools. “When Lady Michaela visited, a broken Black Widow taking care of me grabbed Prince Schyreleah. She told him I was Blood and should have a tutor.

“He gave me some funds and a place where I could learn Craft. Now I know it would have cost him. Where would a slave get money, you know?” Alfie shrugs as he finishes with the trough, fills it up, and heats it then switches to the feeding buckets.

Alfie is a full-grown male, but Dean knows the Eryien just barely left boyhood. And a little in love with Castiel, as well, Dean notices. Even if this court does not fit Alfie, he’d want to stay if only for Cas. “He did what he thought was right.”

“I wouldn’t have survived the camps if I hadn’t been trained in Craft either.” Alfie grins over the buckets, his hands deep and scrubbing them clean. “I was a scrawny child and was poor with the sticks.”

“You’re not so scrawny now,” Dean points out after he brushes Star Dancer’s mane and puts away the horse’s tools. In the low light, Alfie’s ears turn pink. “You’d go anywhere he goes, wouldn’t you?”

“He may be gruff and distant, but Castiel’s heart is always in the right place.”

Save a man’s life once, and you’d own him forever. Dean shouldn’t. His dad would kill him. They wouldn’t move as fast with an Angelus incapacitated with a Ring of Obedience, a fledgling, and another Prince. But they’d need shields to overcome the tracker of that Ring, and maybe Alfie could be one of those shields. “Do you think you’d survive away from Terrielle?”

Alfie shrugs. “What other place is there?”

“If you don’t want to be in the Lady’s court, think you’d travel with me? I’m looking for another court after Winsol.”

Alfie stops scrubbing, his wings curbing closer. Dean nods to him and leaves him to think about it only to crash into Alastair.

“Prince Winchester,” Alastair acknowledges in the nasal tones that grated Dean’s nerves. “Lady Lucian asks after the slave.”

It rankles on Dean’s nerves that Lucian’s Master of the Guard talks down to Castiel like that. Dean also worries over what Alastair might have heard. There is nothing wrong with him leaving Michaela’s services. He isn’t bound to her yet, and Alfie isn’t either. Castiel is another matter altogether.

“He’s fine.”

Alastair’s eyes narrow. “Lady Lucian inquires if she could borrow the slave for entertainment.”

Ah, and Dean knows exactly how Lucian and Michaela are with their entertainment. But could he refuse the inquiry from a Queen without consequence? He thinks back to the silver scars crisscrossed against Castiel’s back and the Angelus statue that held the manacles. “Lady Michaela gave him to me for the duration of my recuperation.”

Dean steps around Alastair’s massive wings, but the Eryien spreads them open to block Dean’s way and says, “It’s unwise to go against Lady Lucian, Prince.”

“Duly noted,” Dean answers. Lucian can’t do anything worse than Michaela once she finds out he’ll be stealing her slave.

Alastair snaps his wings closed as Dean walks away. He calls, “You will regret that decision, Prince.”

Dean doesn’t look back. But he feels Alastair’s beady eyes follow him until he’s inside the communal eyrie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776)  
>    
> 


	14. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Blood female/male** —a general term for the Blood; also refers to any female/male who doesn’t wear Jewels but can use Craft.
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Winsol celebrations are one of the most looked forward to seasons of Blood ceremonies. For those thirteen days, the Blood celebrates the Darkness and Witch, the living myth. Most work is suspended during the festivities, especially during Winsol Eve, the longest night of the year, when everyone is closer to the Darkness.

Some slaves are freed, debts are forgiven, and there are parties to be had. There has never been a released slave in the entirety of Castiel’s existence, but one could always hope. 

Queen Michaela opens her eyrie in the Hayllian fashion to the aristos and other lesser Queens. It makes for the busiest season for both servants and slaves. 

Fresh greenery has been put up through the communal eyrie on the first day of Winsol, imbuing the air with its pine aroma. There have been numerous parties and entertainments the entire week, and they’ve reached the seventh day, the Eve of Winsol. They would end the night with an extravagant party in celebration.

The First Circle went out with both Queen Michaela and Queen Lucian into the forest. They hunt for the traditional wild boar that they’d all eat tonight and for Winsol. It creates the perfect time for the Angelus slaves to prepare their own rituals.

Jack, who’d been considered too young for the hunting party, is with Castiel. They are left to comb the forests surrounding the Slave Enclave. Dean decided to join Castiel for the leisurely stroll. Being recently recovered and Third Circle freed him from the hunt.

“What are we doing here again?” Dean asks dubiously as he watches Jack flit from tree to tree.

Balthazar has taken wing to watch out for widow-maker trees and is flying close to Jack. Castiel kept both Hannah, who’s grounded before her next molt, and Dean company. 

There was snowfall last night, which left them with fresh powdery snow. It provided for a beautiful landscape and emptied the area of most of the winged creatures. It made for difficulty slogging on the snow, so Dean spells a pathway while following Jack.

“We’re looking for a wide and tall oak. One that could burn through the remaining days of Winsol,” Castiel answers patiently. “Preferably one that’s previously been felled.”

Dean obediently looks for knocked over trees, but shrugs. “Didn’t Prince Raphael already bring in the evergreen? The one you all decorated with pinecones, berries, fruit, and witchlight?”

“That’s the tree, we need a log,” Hannah informs him. 

Castiel could see that though Dean understands the words, he was at a loss at the distinction. 

Before Castiel could chime in, Balthazar interrupts with, “Heads up, Cassie! Jackie’s landed on an excellent one.”

Sure enough, they catch up with Jack, who’s already dusting off the snow from a sizable weathered oak. Hannah examines the old tree from all angles before nodding her agreement. 

Balthazar’s whistles punctuate his grin as he moves to one side of the tree. He starts hacking on that end, and Castiel goes near the roots to chop that part.

Both Hannah and Jack settle in the middle, and the trunk is long enough, despite being narrow, that they are far away from Balthazar and Castiel’s axes. Hannah calls in a decanter filled with ale, honey, and spices and pours some over the gnarled log. Jack happily writes the symbols he’s learned from his lessons before they strip the tree of its bark. 

There are only two axes, so Dean watches what Jack and Hannah are doing for a few seconds before joining them over the stripping.

Humming along with the rhythmic work, Castiel’s muscles warm up with labor. Since he’s not been with Lucian, he’s had more leeway to do things that he genuinely wants to do. Dean is not a hard taskmaster, and Castiel even has a few moments for Jack. 

It has been the most manageable winter. Michaela is bound to return him to his duties as escort and pleasure slave after Winsol, and Dean himself has said that he has decided against staying in this court.

Castiel is so lost in his thoughts that by the time he’d been pelted with a face full of snow, it had barely registered. Once he turned around, he saw Hannah covering her face to control her laughter, Balthazar leaning on his axe with a wide grin, and both his son and Dean nowhere to be found. 

“I was wondering when you’d notice, darling,” Balthazar says as he wipes one arm against his forehead.

Castiel inclines his head to focus on the surroundings. Jack had most definitely taken flight after the attack and was hiding in a tree branch. Dean was bound to have disappeared in the opposite direction. Castiel flaps his wings twice to brush off the residue before taking to the air. He chases after Jack first. Upon noticing that his father is after him, he squeals and takes off.

Distantly, Castiel feels that Balthazar cast a Purple Dusk shield around the perimeter. It would prevent Jack from flying too far out but allowed him the illusion of freedom. 

Castiel barrels into his son. They spin twice in the air before they both dropped laughing in a soft mound of snow. “You know we only have until the hunt finishes, Jack.”

Jack grins when his head pops out of the snowdrift, the powder covering him thoroughly but successfully blanketing the fall. Castiel casts a warming spell over the child on top of his thick clothes to ward off the cold. “We’re almost done, Father, and Prince Dean said you looked awfully serious for such a fine day.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Castiel asks as he bundles Jack up in his arms and then wraps him with his wings as he cradles his son back to their log. 

Balthazar has already coiled a rope Craft around their prize. Hannah is smoothing the snow with Craft to help push the timber towards the enclave. Shaking his head, Balthazar pats the wood and drops his shielding. “I see you’ve found one of your bandits. Hannah and I will bring this to the hearth, Cassie. Why don’t you seize that other rogue?”

“Ooh, I want to help!” Jack volunteers, freeing himself from Castiel and then jumping and flying alongside the log.

But Hannah, an expert in precocious, winged children by this time, captures his leg and hauls him back. “My lord! You’re going to catch your death! You are not used to this climate, and you need a cup of warm chocolate and a change out of that damp coat.”

Balthazar chuckles at the exchange while Jack grumbles and settles on the tree trunk with another layer of warming spell from Hannah. “Run along, Cassie. Be back before supper, we’ll fix the kindling before then.”

With one last tug of his power and Hannah pushing behind, they bring their prize home.

Despite the warming spell, the cold is seeping through Dean’s multiple layers of leather. While they regularly had snow in Kaeleer, it isn’t like this perpetually white winter. _Maybe throwing snowballs hadn’t been the best of all my ideas,_ Dean thinks, huddling against an ancient tree. 

But Castiel looked like he needed a bit of silliness, and Dean could tell Jack was getting antsy. So Dean didn’t resist the temptation of lobbing one against Castiel before he and Jack went on their separate ways to hide. The boy had scrambled up the clearing and vanished into the thicket, using Craft to cover his footsteps. 

Dean regretted tossing a snowball against the soft glow that had filled Castiel’s eyes while he worked, though. He heard Castiel say his goodbyes to their group before they’re left alone with the chatter of the birds and the forest critters that hadn’t gone to ground. 

Resisting the urge to look for Castiel over the tree’s massive roots, Dean huddles. He knows that his brown coat is enough to camouflage him against the trees, but not against the white field. He listens for Castiel, but there’s only the rustling of the leaves, a few birds that haven’t gone into hiding, and the occasional scrabble of claws against the tree trunk.

Castiel drops out of the sky like an avenging demon-dead. He corners Dean against the gigantic oak, pushing him against the rough bark. “There you are.” 

There’s a brief flash of teeth, predatory and satisfied after the hunt. Castiel leans forward and rubs one smooth cheek against Dean’s stubble. 

Castiel’s wings cover them from the sky. They’re an inky blot in a field of white, surrounding Dean in its warmth and holding him prisoner. 

“You found me,” Dean says redundantly, his hands fumbling around helplessly on Castiel’s hips.

“Do I get to keep you this time?” Castiel asks, his breath ghosting against Dean’s neck before he drifts to trace a collarbone with his lips.

Dean presses one hand against Castiel’s sternum, which stops the exploration, but doesn’t give them space. He doesn’t understand this, Castiel continually trying to seduce him. But the more Dean tries to stop it, the more Castiel keeps his pursuit. “You don’t need to do this for me, Cas.” Dean cups Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel accepts Dean’s palm and cradles it between his cheek and his own hand. “I’ve told you before, Prince, and I’ll tell you again. I’ve been a pleasure slave for centuries, and I will do it for centuries more. Though some survive by bringing power and sex games into their bed, I do it by accepting that it feels good and that I have no other options.”

Dean pulls his hand back and tries to sink into the unforgiving tree. He struggles to swallow beyond the lump of his throat, but it’s lodged firmly. 

Castiel’s grip is unyielding, and his eyes bore into Dean’s. “But you. You’re the only one that I’ve served that has given me free will. So for whatever short time I have with you, you’ve become _mine_. My own choice. For however long you’ll have me. For however long that I’m allowed to.”

Dean uses his free hand to reach up and trace Castiel’s cheekbone. “Come with me, _please_. We’ll take Jack. I promise we’ll take Jack. We’ll work it out.”

“I’m a Warlord Prince. I need to serve a court.” Among the Blood, males are meant to serve, never to rule. There is a subtle compulsion to bond with a Blood-Jeweled female, more so for those of the Warlord Prince caste. Castiel, as an Angelus and a slave in Terreille, has no hope of gaining any position of worth in the Blood courts here. 

Service doesn’t mean groveling, and a male has his rights. The Blood in Terreille may have forgotten that, but honor is strong in Kaeleer. If Castiel would just allow Dean to show him. “You can, we’ll find one. Better than this.”

“And trade one court for another unknown?” Castiel pulls away, taking the heat with him. “I’d rather drink the poison I know.”

“You’ll die here on your back, trying to give them a dark-Jeweled child.” Dean takes a step towards Castiel, but the Angelus folds his wings around himself in defense. “You’ll condemn another kid to them, and you’ll forge the leash that binds you. Come with me. If not for you, then for Jack. For any future child.”

Castiel is not small, but he curls on himself, his wings tight, his head turned down. He folds himself to shield against the world.

“You and Jack, you’re the closest thing I have to a family here in court. I’m asking you to come because…” Dean pleads, trailing off not knowing what else to say. His fingers brush the feathers lightly. “You got to trust me, Cas.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean relents, letting his fingers drop. “You don’t need to decide now, we have tomorrow. Just think about it.”

Castiel and Dean head back in silence, both deep in their thoughts. By the time they reach the slave’s quarters, the sun has set, and the slaves have cleaned the center of the courtyard where the log was placed. 

In the corner of the Altar, where the slaves meditate, the remains of last year’s log had been decorated and used as candle holders. It’s festooned with branches from their evergreens and boughs of holly. Castiel floats it to himself and takes a deep breath, taking in the clove, cinnamon, and pine oils that Hannah anointed the new log in.

Balthazar positioned the largest part of the tree inside a makeshift fire pit. Around it lies several leaves of holly and fatwood. As the darkest-Jeweled Angelus male, it is Castiel’s duty to ignite the kindling. 

The rest of the lights in the enclave are extinguished, and he calls witch-fire to burn last year’s log, before using it to kindle the bonfire. It glows a deep blue, and with Castiel’s Sapphire, it will last until the log runs out. The anointing oils waft from the fire, filling the yard with its woodsy aroma. 

Hannah passes mismatched glasses filled with hot blooded rum to those in attendance. She pours some on the tree before bringing up her own glass. “For the glory of Witch.”

While there are differences from the Light and Dark ceremonies, Dean would be familiar to the toast for Witch. While the Angelus revere the Light, they still acknowledge the Darkness. 

Echoing murmurs followed around as they settled around the fire’s warmth. Dean is given a blanket, and Jack squeezes between him and Castiel. 

“To the Darkness, so that the Light shines brighter,” Castiel toasts before he takes a gulp and throws holly leaves into the fire.

Jack grins, bringing up his own cup, filled with cider instead of rum, and answers with, “May there always be a roof for the rain.” 

Each of the slaves raises their cup up, offers a different wish, and throws in sprigs of holly until finally, everyone is looking expectantly at Dean. He sputters out loud, not knowing what to add. 

Castiel gives him an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder. He hopes that it would be enough to show Dean that despite what happened in the forest, there are no hard feelings between them.

Dean croaks, “May there be family always beside you.” It’s met with approving murmurs and resounding toasts.

Hannah stands up, surveying her audience, and checking for her fellow Angelus. There are only a few of them left since the Eyrien slavers and Jhinka attacks eradicated the clans. The remnants of society and culture are in these huddled pits of the Eyrien community.

“When the Angelus were new, and the tribes roamed the plains instead of the high mountain passes, there were two Warlord Princes who served the Darkness. During the longest night, they battled for her favor.” The courtyard is silent, listening to the age-old tale, but Dean leans forward, not having heard of it before.

“Tonight the Eve of Winsol, it is that of the holly that wins. The oak licks his wounds before they meet again on the longest day.” Hannah punctuates her stories by walking around, the fire exaggerating her shadows. “And so the oak retires for the next six months until it is his time once more to serve.”

Jack grins and leans towards Dean. “The oak is a symbol of the Light, and we burn it to say goodbye for the past year, Prince.”

When Jack looks at Castiel in approval, Castiel calls in the finished natal pillow. It’s sweet-smelling and soft but smaller than the ones that occupy Jack’s bed. He hands it to Jack because he didn’t know if he’d have time later. 

“It’s a tradition among us Angelus that we save the first natal down of our children and mingle it with the feathers of our own.” 

It would have been a gift during Jack’s infancy, something he would have that carried the psychic scent of all those who loved him. A token of love. But Jack’s mother is Eryien and did not have feathers, so it is Castiel’s to uphold. It had taken too long, with carefully hoarded time and precious down, but at last, Castiel could present it.

Jack squeezes the soft offering and inhales all the psychic scents mingled in it. “Thank you, Father. I don’t know how to tuck it away in my own space,” Jack confesses, hugging the pillow tighter. 

Castiel opens the inner barriers of his mind to Jack and shows him how to open the space that all Blood could access with Craft. The depths of Jack’s mind create a shallow pocket, showing hints of how deep the nestling’s power well will manifest. 

Jack tries to vanish and call it several times before Castiel is content that the boy has learned it. Castiel ruffles Jack’s hair and kisses his forehead. 

“Hey, Cassie, they’ll start the party at the communal eyrie soon,” Balthazar reminds them as he takes the glasses and gathers Jack into his arms. 

Castiel makes a face of distaste but nods. “Dean, I’ll fly you to your rooms and assist. They will look for you there.” 

They both need to be formally dressed. Winsol Eve would require Dean to wine and dine all evening. Tomorrow on the bristles of the boar they hunted, the Circles would pledge loyalty to Michaela.

There is an amused glint in Balthazar’s eyes before he sends to Castiel through a spear to spear thread, *It’s Dean now is it?*

Castiel’s glare bores through Balthazar’s. “Prince Winchester,” Castiel corrects himself out loud.

Balthazar doesn’t bother to stifle the laughter, and Dean is looking at both of them, knowing they are communicating silently. It is more rude than Castiel using his first name in the first place. *Oh, Cassie. You may tell the world that he’s _Prince Winchester_ , but it’s clear that he’s already _Dean_ to you. And that you’re Cas to him.*

With that playful jibe, Balthazar shakes his head and leaves them to attend the communal eyrie’s Winsol festivities.


	15. / Terreille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **Priestess** —a witch who cares for altars, Sanctuaries, and Dark Altars; witnesses handfasts and marriages; performs offerings; equal in status to a Healer and a Prince
>> 
>> **_Book of Protocol: Hierarchies of the Blood_ **

Lucian opted for a private Birthright Ceremony. They hold it on the Sanctuary on the vast acreage close to Neawall, but away from the mountain. Although, it couldn’t be truly private, due to Lucian being a District Queen. 

A handful of aristos and District Queens loiter in the calm snow-covered grounds. Michaela is represented by chosen First Circle and Second Circle males. Dean is the only Third Circle, sent because he saved Jack from the Jhinka. Michaela stayed behind in the eyrie to welcome them when they returned.

Castiel’s nerves are frayed, and a good deal of the males look at him with pity, understanding the weight that the ceremony carries for the father. 

While the Birthright Ceremony is one of the most important days in a Blood child’s life, it is no less special to a father’s. It is what decides his role going forward.

Lucian gives a sly smile over to Castiel, which encases his heart in the cold, more than even the freezing winter of the mountain air. Castiel ignores her just as he ignores the surrounding gossip. 

The whispers are inevitable because he is a slave, and the mother is a Queen. But since there are other Queens in attendance, Lucian pays mind to them and leaves Castiel. She makes her circuit and talks to them, accepting their well wishes and gifts, reveling in the attention.

When he finds a moment with Jack, Castiel kneels down and brushes away imagined dirt on Jack’s formal clothes. The Angelus straightens the nestling’s jacket and lightly runs his hands through the wing’s feathers. 

Jack’s feathers are white, but they still have some juvenile quality. Though he lost the darker ones, they are looser, woolier, and a muddier cream than what his adult plumage would be. 

Even at his age, Jack doesn’t squirm with Castiel’s regard, and Castiel gives him a bittersweet smile. “Know that I love you, Jack. No matter what happens tonight.” 

Jack hugs Castiel, and unshed tears are glittering in his eyes. He knows that regardless of what Jewels he wears at the end of the ceremony that he is bound to lose something. 

It is the strength of the Jewels he brings out that would determine how bleak his future would be. Ringed as Castiel is, or a mere pet at court, continuing to exist but dependent on the whims of a sadistic Queen. 

Lady Lucian, having finished her rounds, slips her arm through Castiel’s, standing on his right. “Well? We still have the party after,” she reminds them as she tugs them towards the Sanctuary where the Priestess stood before the Sanctuary. 

This far from the capital, the place of worship is humble but well-kept, with rooms for the Altar, records regarding the Jewels, and the testing chambers.

Once they reach the ceremonial circle, Lucian lets go of Castiel’s arm and put her hands on Jack’s shoulder, guiding him towards the Priestess.

The Priestess acknowledges Lucian before she turns to Jack. “Who will stand as your witness?”

Jack, his wings trembling, looks at them both. While Castiel wishes that in his heart of hearts that he could accompany the child, it is not done. And he knows that Jack fears Lucian. With a shaking hand, Jack silently reaches for his mother. 

With another one of her secret smiles, Lucian accepts. Lucian, the Priestess, and Jack disappear into the Sanctuary.

Castiel tenses, but there is nothing he could do to influence what Jewel Jack comes out with. It doesn’t mean that the pounding of his heart did not beat in his ears for the next five minutes that it took for Jack to return.

Jack runs out with an uncut Opal and stops at the boundary of the ceremonial circle. 

Castiel gives him a wide gummy grin in congratulations. If Jack had been stronger, he would have been ringed as a dangerous male, traded court to court to get a darker-colored Jewel. Opal is stable, solid, and able to protect if needed. 

The fierce joy he feels is dampened when Lucian walks out of the Sanctuary. As an Opal, Jack could attempt to descend up to the Red when he Offers to the Darkness and gain his adult Jewels, but Lucian is not content. Even from afar, Castiel sees that Lucian hoped for a darker bloodline.

Wordlessly, Lucian summons Jack back to her with the elegant gesture of her palm. Once she is holding the child’s shoulders, she looks at Castiel. 

“I, Lucian, District Queen of Bragana under Mount Ararat, deny the paternity of this slave for my child, Jacob of Bragana.” Shields of the ceremonial circle snap up. “Several of my sister’s Angelus’ slaves serviced me when he was sired. Jack’s white plumage could be any of theirs, making him unlikely to be this dark one’s child.”

The ice that encased Castiel’s heart earlier is now a blizzard sweeping across all those that attended. Castiel looks at the males and the Queens that are rallying behind her. They feel the ominous promise of his Jewels. 

If Castiel challenges paternity in court, he will not win. Michaela would favor her sister. Michaela should answer to a Territory Queen, the final law of the land, but because of Dorothea’s purge, there is no one else.

Castiel’s eyes alight on Jack, who is struggling against Lucian’s hold. Frost starts to cling on to the thin hairs of his forearms and frames his eyelashes. It lines the feathers of his wings. The anger becomes cold enough that snow starts to swirl around them.

“Mother Night!” Dean curses from inside the circle, but it is far away and insignificant. The killing field is clear, the battle lines are drawn. “This from a _Sapphire_?”

There is a pulse deep within the Opal, Jack’s power flaring out in protest. It pummels some guards to their knees, but not all of them. 

Castiel’s eyes flicker towards Dean. *If you help me with this, I will kneel for you.*

*I gotcha, Cas,* Dean responds in the spear thread, his hand clenched around his own Jewel. *We’ll take your boy and go. No kneeling necessary.*

Castiel feels for the ceremonial circle shields, knowing that it is layered Sapphire. He could break through this, but he wouldn’t win against a full Coven of Queens. Even with Prince Winchester’s help, they might take down a few, but their numbers would force them in a prolonged fight. One that Castiel isn’t sure they could win, even with darker jewels.

When Castiel steps towards the shields, agonizing pain radiates from the Ring of Obedience. He drops to his knees, curling around himself. One hand is clawing at his thigh to distract himself from the torment and the other clutching at his groin. 

Lucian is holding her controlling ring aloft, the bolt of pain causing a line of spit to dribble from his mouth.

Dean attempts to fight his way through the shields and support Castiel. But nothing could be done while a man endures the Ring of Obedience’s punishment.

Jack screams, “No!” Another pulse, this time spreading out in a visible gold wave from Jack. The assault suddenly stops, and Castiel’s vision whites out for a moment from the sweet relief. 

When Castiel manages to crawl to a tree to support himself, he surveys the surroundings. The blast of power toppled all the trees and leveled the Sanctuary to the dust. None of the witches from the coven are standing, even Lucian, and the males are scattered and disoriented. 

It had flung Dean to the side. Thankfully, he is awake if a little stunned. The Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince has the faculties to send spears of power and take out the males that Jack hadn’t dealt with. They are few, and Dean dispatches them easily. 

Sobbing, Jack runs towards Castiel, hugging his back. It helps Castiel step away from the killing edge. Castiel takes a ragged breath and assesses his strength. 

Before Castiel prods at it, Dean finishes securing the area and tugs Jack to the Coach. He would not touch another Warlord Prince barely out of the killing edge. “We gotta go.”

“They’re not going to wake up if Jack leached their Jewels. Not soon.” Castiel rasps.

“Yes, but who holds your primary controller ring, Cas?” Dean asks, pointedly looking at his groin. “We need to get the Ring of Obedience off while one of the Queens holding it is out due to Jewel exhaustion, and we need to move _now_.”

Dean is right. Lucian holds a secondary ring because Castiel is just a loan. It is Michaela who owns him. 

Not bothering to argue, Castiel goes towards the Coach, and Dean bundles the distraught nestling and runs. 

Dean meets his dad at the Coaches, hiding in plain sight with all the other aristo Coaches that came to watch Jack’s Birthright Ceremony. 

John is ready to drive and nods at them as Dean pushes Cas and Jack inside. Dean would have been a better driver because he wears a darker Jewel than his dad’s Green, but he didn’t trust Cas not to lash out at an unknown male this close. 

He shields the Coach in a protective Red, which has Cas snapping his head up, shrewd eyes looking over Dean. There is no time to explain the deception, so Dean waves it off for later.

Luckily, Dean has experienced Jack’s ability to yank a person’s reservoir first hand. While Dean hadn’t expected Jack to hold that entire group’s power, whatever Jack did, he’d stopped them.

When Dean saw the killing field after Jack’s outburst, he’d seen that the uncontrolled burst Jack unleashed had been like an unwieldy club. It flung everyone to the ground and took all their Jewel strength. The closest Prince to Dean was flattened. It’s like Dean’s faint after the Jhinka attack. 

“Let’s see the Ring of Obedience,” Dean says as the Coach lurches to catch the Green Winds.

Not wasting time, Castiel strips perfunctorily, removing his belt and trousers, his face grimacing in pain when he accidentally brushes against his member. He was heaving and gasping. “I could try to bring all my strength to shatter it.”

“No, it won’t be strong enough!” Dean argues as he calls in a ball of clay. 

Dean pries a bit of the ring off, which elicits an agonizing moan from Castiel before it clamps down to the clay. Concentrating, Dean tries to think of a spot he knows well in Terreille where he could send the ring to without suspicion and settles on the pools that Castiel bathed him in. Dean vanishes the halves over the water and sighs in relief when it’s gone. 

Dean knocks on the Coach roof, and his dad opens the dividing window between the driver’s seat and the main compartment. 

“We got it off,” Dean says, which causes his dad to nod and shift the course of the Coach to the winds towards the Gate. Since the Ring of Obedience has been removed, and Cas is already starting to dress, Dean focuses on Jack. “Hey, princeling.”

Jack is curled, his wings low, and wrapped around himself while his arms are over his folded knees. He is blinking tears, rubbing his eyes on the muddied sleeve of his coat. 

Dean watches in helplessness as the child rocks himself from the use of his powers, devastated at the havoc he’d just caused. 

Castiel gently pushes Dean aside and slides up to his son, adding another layer of wings to his son’s already balled up form. He makes low shushing noises, trying to calm the child.

Dean doesn’t want to disturb, but Jack is freshly gifted his Jewel, they’d need to check if he’d drained his reservoir or shattered it with that display. “Come on, Jack. Could I see your Jewel?” 

With a sniff, Jack’s hand breaks through Castiel’s black feathers. He unwraps his fingers around the pearlescent Opal, revealing that it’s whole and unshattered. Dean taps it to asses, and it flares to life, warning him off, albeit weakly. Its levels are low and almost drained, but it isn’t Broken and it’s already bonded to a Warlord. Dean couldn’t believe it. 

The power that swept the Sanctuary wasn’t as potent as the Black. It was definitely darker than the Opal and more than the amount that all the witches present were channeling. “How?”

“Jack releases what he takes immediately,” Castiel explains when he follows Dean’s gaze. With his other hand, he closes his fingers around Jack’s. “He can amplify a spell you’re Casting as well with the power that he’s leached. I suspect it’s why he’s an Opal.”

“It’s smack down the middle of the spectrum,” Dean realizes. Jack doesn’t use his Jewel as a repository, he just uses it to resonate. 

“Jack doesn’t descend to the Darkness as we do. He doesn’t absorb the Darkness’ power,” Castiel whispers, rubbing his chin against the boy’s head. “He reflects the Light.”

Dean snaps his head up at the words and then looks at Jack with realization. It’s never been Castiel. The Prince of Light has always been Jack.

Riding the Green Winds to their unknown destination took several hours by Castiel’s estimate, with Jack calming down and vanishing his Jewel with help from Castiel. For the first time, Castiel calls in his Birthright Sapphire to himself. The Sapphire Jewel glints in the dark, and he closes his eyes at the power that flows through him. 

The Ring of Obedience alerts its controller ring a slave’s power draws from the Jewels. Punishment through the Ring of Obedience for that infraction is swift and fierce. Castiel sips through his reserves now greedily. Without the Jewels, he could do basic Craft, but any strong working of magic needed his reservoir and focus.

Dean has a far-away look of someone monitoring the threads, but he shakes his head and smiles at Castiel when he notices the attention.

“No one seems to be following,” Dean says, trying to reassure Castiel.

“Jack would have drained the Jewels of those descending into the Darkness. All of them were channeling, they would not risk me breaking through that shield.” Rearranging his wings to cover the sleeping Jack more thoroughly, Castiel nods at Dean. “It’s Michaela that we need to worry about. She will look for Lucian once Jack doesn’t return. Especially since it’s Winsol. Where are you taking us?”

“To another Altar.” Another far-away look as Dean assesses the radial webs the Coaches were using to get them to their destination. “Not long now.”

Castiel nods, tightening his wings around Jack, while adding a soothing spell that eases his sleep. While the leaching didn’t tire Jack out, the stress from the Birthright Ceremony and the sudden escape towards parts unknown had taken its toll on Jack. “He’s never had to pull that much power before.”

Dean scoffs. “Only you and Lucian were Sapphires, the rest were lighter colored witches and some smattering of Warlords. It’s why she needed a coven.” 

Dean takes Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s pulse quickens when the Warlord Prince turns Castiel’s wrist. It exposes the newly adorned finger with its Sapphire Ring. There’s a rushing through Castiel’s ears when Dean swipes his fingers across the Jewel, then looks up at Castiel. 

“When you made your Offering to the Darkness, what Jewel did you get?”

Castiel tries to pull back his hand, but Dean’s grip is firm, and he isn’t letting go. “What do you mean? I’m a Sapphire. I—”

“This is your Birthright Jewel, Cas. I’ve only felt you use Sapphire. Now that the Ring of Obedience is gone…” Dean hesitates, seemingly unsure over the words, before continuing, “you resonate _lower_ than the Red.”

Castiel shakes his head, that’s not right. _I’d know if I was something other than Sapphire, wouldn’t I?_ Michaela ringed him before he Offered to the Darkness, he remembers. And if he forced it or didn’t offer in a full ceremony, he’d never get his full strength—“You’re a Red?”

Castiel suspected after Dean’s Jewel exhaustion despite the Green being full and no other Jewel in sight, but he couldn’t confirm without alerting the Healers of Jack’s talents.

Dean laughs as he taps the Red shields. “ _That’s_ what you’re asking? I was using a psychic shield. I thought you were too. You’re not?”

“No… I…” Castiel trails off as he tries to remember. It would have been at a Sanctuary, and there were teasing glimpses of fevered dreams of a coven of Black Widows, potions, and Webs. 

Castiel closes his eyes and descends to the abyss. He glides past the Sapphire and past Dean’s Red. He turns and ends at the Gray before rising. When Castiel calls his Jewel, the Gray responds. It fits in his hand and fills with the power he just drew. 

When Castiel uncurls his fingers, a Gray brooch sits on his palm, pulsing with his heartbeat in welcome.

“There you are,” Dean says reverently. Castiel thinks Dean is examining the Jewel, but when he looks up, he catches Dean’s eyes on him. 

The Warlord Prince reaches over and pins the Gray, simply set on a silver backing, against the lapel of Castiel’s ebony dress coat. His fingertips linger on the pins as he fixes it before he smooths out the cloth and slowly draws his hand away. “Hey, Cas, I—”

The Coach jolts to a stop, and the carriage doors opening cuts Dean off. Castiel sees their driver, dark brown hair peppered with white, and a full-month-old beard covering his face. “Come on, we still have to prep the Altar.”

Dean runs his hand through his hair, frustrated at the turn of events. Now isn’t the time to realize that he wants to do something about the attraction that’s been simmering between him and Cas. He couldn’t wait to go home, see Sam again, and breathe in the air from Kaeleer. There would be time when they were all safe.

The Sanctuary John picked is on the outskirts of the towns that surround the base of Mount Ararat. Abandoned because of a previous landslide, there are caved in sections filled with snow. But the inner rooms are intact, and they head towards the center of the Sanctuary, where the Altar lay. His dad makes quick work of the wrought-iron gate, ushering in Cas and a sleepy Jack followed by Dean.

John lights the black candles around the Altar in the sequence to open the Gate to make the portal as Castiel secures the inner sanctuary with the Gray shields. It wouldn’t hold against a concerted attack, but it would buy them time if they are ambushed.

“I’ll pass first,” his dad says as he nods at the thin filament of golden light that breaks in the middle of the Altar. “Make sure you get rid of the candles.”

With a nod at Dean, John steps through and is gone. 

While Dean sets a timed spell on the candles, Castiel kneels down to address Jack. “Darling, we’re leaving Lucian. I’m taking you with me. Do you agree?”

Jack didn’t even hesitate. He flings his arms around Castiel and nods, his wings following. “All right, darling. All right.” He turns to Dean with hope in his eyes.

Dean holds out his hand. “Come on, Cas, let’s go.”

With one hand in Dean’s, and the other firmly in Jack’s Castiel steps into the Gate and into their unknown future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr rebloggable link](https://perfectpairbang.tumblr.com/post/619128593523654656/title-prince-of-light-author-icedreams)
> 
> Oh wow, okay, this is part of the [Perfect Pair Big Bang](https://perfectpairbang.tumblr.com/). It's a new big bang where authors and artists were speed matched via an anonymous forum where we talked for 24 hours before deciding who we'd want to write with. I totally lucked out with pherry, and we've had an AMAZING time together, so I can't thank the mods enough for making this happen. 
> 
> If you liked the story and have NEVER read the books, I would suggest picking the [original Black Jewels Trilogy by Anne Bishop](https://smile.amazon.com/Black-Jewels-Trilogy-Daughter-Darkness/dp/0451529014/ref=sr_1_1?crid=EJGOG8A5NVFJ&dchild=1&keywords=black+jewels+trilogy&qid=1589481068&sprefix=black+jewels+trilogy+anne+bishop%2Caps%2C371&sr=8-1)
> 
> There's no kindle for the three-book anthology, but if you want to try out just the [first book](https://smile.amazon.com/Daughter-Blood-Black-Jewels-Book-ebook/dp/B000Q9EXYE/ref=sr_1_2?crid=EJGOG8A5NVFJ&dchild=1&keywords=black+jewels+trilogy&qid=1589481160&sprefix=black+jewels+trilogy+anne+bishop%2Caps%2C371&sr=8-2) It's just USD 2.00 in Kindle!!! Be warned tho... there's rape of children, killing of children... viciousness just everything against children in the books. It's also pretty vulgar for traditional printed media. BUT it's more mature than it is explicit. There's virtually no sex descriptions in the pages even though it happens.
> 
> And... I think I managed to trick people into reading a scaled back psychic A/B/O. This isn't an A/B/O though, the world it's based on predates all A/B/O mythologies cropping up in fiction. That said, it still has a lot of similarities, if you made A/B/O more of a psychic "magic" connection isnstead of a knotting, slicking, mating thing. But the heats, the ruts, the scents... yeah scaled back A/B/O.
> 
> We planned this fic to be much much longer than what it is. Unfortunately, the tail end of 2019 was such a big... End for my family that I kept struggling with the deadlines and had to scale back writing (I finished the entire story by the deadline, but I was still writing snippets between deadline and the posting date and I was still editing right before posting). 
> 
> I graduated and I was setting up in practice then everyone around me started getting really sick culminating in my grandmother dying last December. To make matters worse... Well we're all in this pandemic together. The end of 2019 has felt like a decade and 2020 is looming like a century. So. I'm really thankful for the mods (especially Jaeh) for repeatedly being gracious about my fudged deadlines and pherryt for being understanding about everything.
> 
> AGAIN, please check pherryt's amazing [art work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776). I'mmma gonna put some here in a while, along with a glossary but please give her all the love. This wouldn't have been completed without her, the midnight asks, the rolling around the bed, the emotional support, the plotting, everything has pherry's brushstrokes in it.


	16. BOOK of PROTOCOL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary for this monster. Note that these are Book terms, and therefore are owned by Anne Bishop excepting the territories that I made for Lucian and Michaela.

**Angelline, Jaenelle** —an extraordinary child who makes friends across the three Realms. Was Jack's friend before she was forbidden to travel around Terreille for her safety. 

**Angelus** —nomadic patriarchal tribe. A long-lived race, cousin to the Eryiens, but wiped out in recent history. Blood who revere the Light instead of the Darkness. *(in fic only)

 **Birthright Ceremony** —a ceremony where a Blood youth goes into a Sanctuary with a Priestess and a chosen witness to obtain their first Birthright Jewel. Not all the Blood are powerful enough to gain a Jewel. (See Jewel Ranks) It is also the ceremony where Paternity is officially granted to a father.

 **Birthright Jewel** —the first Jewel granted to a Blood youth during the Birthright Ceremony. Depending on its strength, they could descend a maximum of three ranks after their Offering to their mature Jewel strength.

 **Blood** —a Caste of people over many races that are capable of utilizing Craft that could be focused using a Jewel.

 **Blood law** —the law governing the Blood. Males follow three cardinal rules: 1) Love, Honor, Cherish 2) Protect and Defend 3) Obey. The first two supersede the third. There are no laws against murder with the Blood, but they must be prepared to follow consequences and pay the price. Within a court, a ruling Queen's will is law. She is checked by the Queen she serves. (see Heirarchies, Caste Queens) In Kaeleer, if it cannot be resolved by a territory Queen, it is brought up to the Dark Council.

 **Blood society** —the intricate dance between social class, Jewel strength, and caste. Meaning your rank doesn't depend on being high born/aristocratic. If the Blood has darker Jewels or a higher caste than someone high born, or someone older than him, they they could go up the ranks.

 **Break to Birthright—** when the Blood shatter their mature Jewel but retain enough psychic strength to retain their Birthright.

 **Break to Basic Craft—** when the Blood shatter their mature Jewel and their Birthright. A severe punishment for a Queen who violates another Queen's court.

 **Controller Ring—** Rings that control the Ring of Obedience. Could be solitary or several connected to one ring. It detects surface emotions, distress, use of a Jewel, and location of the Ring of Obedience. (see Ring of Obedience)

 **Court** —the retinue around a Queen. It requires a minimum of 12 Blood males and a Queen to form a court. (See First Circle) With three named Offices: Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort or First Escort.

 **Coven of the Hourglass** —the coven of Black Widows who regulates them and trains them on how to weave a tangled web, poisons, and how to heal the mind. Because of this, the Hourglass has become the Black Widow's symbol.

 **Craft** —the working of spells, whether basic or more complex; with some specialized spells per caste.

 **Dark Altar** —one of thirteen Gates that linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.

 **Dark Council** —the arbitrating body of Kaeleer that listens to petitions or pass judgments when disputes occurred between the Blood in Kaeleer that couldn't be settled by the Territory Queens.

 **Demon-dead** —members of the blood whose physical bodies have died but retained residual power, retaining their death wounds. Is the reason why assassins must 'finish the kill' by draining the Jewels before death. Can 'live' with taking blood, to maintain their bodies, thereby transitioning to being Guardians (see Guardian). Otherwise, they return to the darkness.

 **Eyrien** —a warrior race with tanned skin, golden eyes, black hair (which they share in common with all the long-lived races), and bat-like wings.

 **First Circle—** the most intimate companions of a Queen's court. The higher the circle, the less direct contact with the Queen. Blood females may serve in the First Circle, but to form a court, a Queen needs twelve Blood males to serve. (see Court)

 **Guardians** —the living-dead. By drinking blood once they are demon-dead, the Blood have the potential to extend their life indefinitely as a Guardian. Are sensitive to light.

 **Hayllian** —one of the three long-lived races, native to Hayll in Terreille. Shares the golden skin, dark hair, and golden eyes of all long-lived races. Males of this race do not have facial hair.

 **High Lord of Hell** —A Guardian and the ruler and caretaker of the Dark Realm. Maintains order in Hell separating the dead from the living Realms. Grants demon-dead their final death if requested. (see Guardian)

 **Inner barriers—** shields that protected the Blood's mind from their own kind. The more barriers passed, the more personal the link. The first barrier is for everyday thoughts. The last barrier protects the core of Self.

 **Inner web** —another name for core, the Self that can tap the power within the Blood. If shattered, the Jewel shatters, and the Blood is broken to either Birthright or completely shattered to basic craft. (See Shattered, Broken to Birthright)

 **Jewels—** outward representation of the Blood's power. It acts as a reservoir and a focus for the Blood's power. Not all Blood have enough psychic strength for a Jewel.

 **Jhinka** —fierce, winged people that are the natural enemies of the Eyrien. Short-lived but with numbers that can overwhelm even the Blood. Patriarchal clans, unlike most of the Blood, loosely joined by a dozen tribal chiefs.

 **Landing webs** —the point after traveling the Winds where Blood could land. Marked by a clear Jewel.

 **Moontime** —the time when a witch is most vulnerable. It's when the shedding of blood from the uterus happens. During moontime, witches have a higher metabolism and burn up their body if food is not available. It is also the time when a witch physically cannot use her Jewels and have to ask someone to drain them fully. During moontimes, Blood males are more aggressive to others perceived as a threat and more conscientious towards the witches they consider their own. 

**Offering to the Darkness** —a time when the Blood gains their mature Jewel strength. It is, at most, three levels darker than their Birthright Jewel. It can only happen once. If the Blood Offers too soon, and the person is not mature enough for the Jewel strength, they will not reach their full potential.

 **Psychic abyss—** part of the Darkness, where the inner webs are located. It is a representation of the mind and the power well that the Blood can access.

 **Psychic scent—** 'scents' detected by the Blood regarding other Blood's emotions and the darkness of their Jewel. Probably also how Blood males detect moontimes in Blood females. (see Moontime)

 **Psychic threads—** threads of power used to send emotions or thoughts from one of the Blood to another. May be set to privacy depending on gender (distaff/spear threads) or Jewel rank (Red threads) but still has the possibility of being overheard.

 **Purge, the** —Dorothea SaDiablo's systematic purge of strong Queens (by breaking them in their Virgin Night, so they couldn't retain their full Jewel strength or outright killing them) that could challenge her rise to power and Black Widows who could prophesize the future. This spurred the need for control of darker Jeweled males by the Ring of Obedience since there were no more darker Jeweled Queens in Terreille. (see Ring of Obedience) 

**Ring of Obedience—** rings placed around a male's member to force compliance. Used widely in Terreille for lighter Jeweled witches to control dark Jeweled Males and force them into slavery. It monitors Jewel use (which is forbidden to slaves,) location, and can send debilitating pain through the ring. Connected to a controller ring. (see Controller ring)

 **Sexual heat** —part of a Warlord Prince's nature, designed to lure and attract females, although also affects Blood males

 **Shattered Jewel—** a Jewel completely drained of its power then destroyed, rendering it unable to be a receptacle of power anymore. If Shattered to Birthright, the Blood is just weaker. If Shattered completely, the Blood is limited to basic Craft. (see Break to Birthright)

 **Shaving** —entertainment in Dorothea's court meaning to strip a man of his genitals. (Men of the long-lived races do not have facial hair)

 **Sadi, Daemon** —pleasure slave of Dorothea SaDiablo's court. Nicknamed the Sadist. Was the product of trying to return a darker bloodline to Terreille by pairing a witch with the darkest Jeweled male for one night. Is the only natural male Black Widow. Was 1,000 years old during the prophecy of the Queen of Darkness and 1,700 years old when they found her. (Start of the original series, Daughter of the Blood). Hayllian Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince with Birthright Red.

 **SaDiablo, Dorothea—** High Priestess of Terreille. Wanted Blood males to yield to her. However, males wouldn't yield to a Priestess like they would a Queen, causing her to make the Ring of Obedience (see Ring of Obedience). Started the systemic purge of Terreille. (see purge) Hayllian Red-Jeweled Priestess and Black Widow.

 **SaDiablo, Saetan** —the High Lord of Hell and High Priest of the Hourglass. A Guardian and a Black Widow. Was the only living male Black Widow before his son, Daemon, was born. Hayllian Warlord Prince wearing the Black with Birthright Red Jewels.

 **Tangled web—** a web of spidersilk, woven by Black Widow witches. It holds dreams and visions and is impossible to recreate.

 **Twisted Kingdom** —a place within the Blood's mind that they retreat into when they are assaulted. Often called gray and bleak, it is what the Blood call madness.

 **Vanish/Call in objects** —the Blood have a personal repository whose space is directly proportional to their Jewel strength. This is where they vanish objects until needed, and call them back in

 **War** **between Kaeleer and Terreille—** Started on the false premise of fear of the High Lord of Hell and the kindred. (Politically it was more because of a Priestess wanting to become High Priestess of all three Realms.) The war caused the borders between the two Terreille and Kaeleer s to close. Also caused the kindred in Kaeleer to retreat into their own territories and close them to outsiders.

 **Winds** —meets at the Black Mountain, Ebon Askavi. They contain both tether and radial lines and have a Web for each rank of the Blood Jewels. The darker the Web, the more tether and radial lines, the faster the Wind. Blood could ride Winds or drive a Coach their Jewel rank or lighter.

 **Witchblood—** bloodred flowers, with black throats and black-tipped petals that bloom from the first breath of spring to the last sigh of autumn. Grows only where a witch's blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who met a violent death was buried. Used by Black Widows to create an almost undetectable poison.

* * *

## Jewel Ranks

White | Yellow | Tiger Eye | Rose | Summer-sky | Purple Dusk | _Opal**_ | Green | Sapphire | Red | Gray | Ebon-gray | Black

  * Opal is the dividing line between lighter and darker Jewels because it can be either
  * When making the Offering to the Darkness, a person can descend a maximum of three ranks from his/her Birthright Jewel



eg. John is Birthright Summer-sky descended to mature Green, the maximum rank that you could descend. 

* * *

## Blood Hierarchies/Castes

in ascending hierarchies:

**Female** | **Male** | **Others**  
---|---|---  
landen | landen | non-Blood of any race  
Blood male | Blood female | a general term for Blood who may or may not wear Jewels  
witch | Warlord | a Jeweled person who isn't any of the other designations |   
Healer & Priestess * | Prince * | _** see definition at the bottom_  
| Warlord Prince | a dangerous, extremely aggressive Jeweled male; in status, slightly lower than a Queen  
Queen |  | a witch who rules the Blood; is considered to be the land’s heart and the Blood’s moral compass  
  
**Healer** —a witch who heals physical wounds and illnesses; equal in status to a Priestess and a Prince

 **Priestess** —a witch who cares for altars, Sanctuaries, and Dark Altars; witnesses handfasts and marriages; performs offerings; equal in status to a Healer and a Prince

 **Prince** —a Jeweled male equal in status to a Priestess or a Healer

 **Black Widow** —a witch who heals the mind; weaves the tangled webs of dreams and visions; is trained in illusions and poisons. Is not included in the traditional hierarchy of a Queen's Court. (A Queen may be a Queen and a Black Widow, A Healer and a Black Widow etc.)

Blood villages look after landen villages bound to them. Blood villages are ruled by District Queens. District Queens serve Province Queens. The Province Queens in turn served the Territory Queen, who was chosen by the majority of the darker-Jeweled Blood. (both male and female)

* * *

## Maps

Unofficial Maps are found in the [appendix](http://darkofferings.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=18) compiled by ~~people who Role Play Black Jewels~~ intrepid adventurers.

**Amdarh—** the capital of Dhemlan Kaeleer. Ruled by the District Queen Zhara.

 **Ararat, Mount—** one of the provinces in Askavi; location of Michaela's Eyries. Ruled by Province Queen Michaela (*fic only)

 **Askavi—** mountainous Territory existing in Askavi and Kaeleer. The native home territory of the Eyrien.

 **Bragana** —one of the cities at the base of Mount Ararat. Ruled by the District Queen Lucian. (*fic only)

 **Dena Nehele** —Territory in Terreille. One of the last Territories standing against Dorothea SaDiablo, which she overwhelmed eventually. (see Events: Invisible RIng and Shalador's Queen)

 **Dhemlan** —a Territory existing in all three Realms. Governed by Warlord Prince Saetan SaDiablo. 

**Dreaga** —the capital of Hayll.

 **Grayhaven** —capital of Dena Nehele

 **Hayll** —a Territory in Terreille. Native Hayllians are one of the three long-lived races. Ruled by the High Priestess Dorothea SaDiablo.

 **Hell** —the Dark Realm. Home to the demon-dead and the Guardians. Realm closest to the Darkness. Ruled by Warlord Prince and Black Widow Saetan SaDiablo.

 **Kaeleer** —the Shadow Realm. Situated between Hell and Terreille. Previously at War with Terreille.

 **Shalador** —territory in Terreille.

 **Sinai, Mount—the** original location of Angelus tribes. Previously under the Chieftain Charles Shyreleah. (*fic only)

 **Terreille** —the Realm of Light, one of the Three Realms. Was previously at war with Kaeleer which caused the borders between the two Realms to close. (see War)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I missed anything. I feel like this is already comprehensive. Let me know!
> 
> The fic is 43,500 words long... I hated to break that up but... well here's the glossary. Because apparently I can't write without one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Prince of Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347776) by [iCeDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iCeDreams/pseuds/iCeDreams), [pherryt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt)




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